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W.B.  CLARKE  &CARRUTH, 

Boolisellers, 
BOSTON,    MASS. 


/ 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


Iittp://archive.org/details/ramblesreveries01tuck 


RAMBLES  AND  REVERIES. 


BY  HENRY  T.  TUCKERMAN, 

AUTHOR  OF  "the  ITALIAN  SKETCH  BOOK,"  AND  "ISABEL 
OR  SICILY." 


^  DuJce.  I  would  divide  my  days 

'Twiit  books  and  journeys. 
Leo.     'Twere  well.     To  wander  and  muse  at  will 
Redeems  our  life  from  more  than  half  its  ill." 


NEW-YORK: 
JAMES    P.    GIFFING. 

NO.   56   GOLD    STREET. 

1841. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1841,  by 

JAMES  P.  GIFFING, 

in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of 
New-York. 


S.    ADAMS,    PRINTER, 
59  Gold  Street,  cor.  of  Ann. 


.V 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  favor  with  which  many  of  the  following  articles 
were  recieved,  as  they  appeared  from  time  to  time  in 
the  periodicals  of  the  day,  induced  the  belief  that  a  col- 
lected edition  would  be  acceptable  to  the  public.  They 
are  accordingly  presented  in  the  form  of  a  volume,  which, 
it  is  hoped,  will  prove  acceptable,  at  least  to  those  who 
honored  the  author's  previous  attempts  with  such  kind 
consideration. 


INSCRIBED 

TO 
OF    NEW-TORK, 

With  the  sincere  regard 

OP 

THE  AUTHOR, 


CONTENTS 


SKETCHES. 

■    -■' 

Page 

A  Day  at  Ravenna,       .... 

3 

The  Cholera  in  Sicily,        .... 

15 

The  Capuchin  of  Pisa,   .... 

33 

San  Marino,            ..... 

43 

Turin,     ...... 

61 

Love  in  a  Lazzaret,             .... 

72 

Florence  Revisited,       .... 

87 

The  Thespian  Syren,         .... 

118 

Modena,              ..... 

139 

A  Journey,               ..... 

149 

Genoa,    ...... 

.      157 

Bologna,        ...... 

162 

Lucca,    ...... 

.       171 

Leaf  from  a  Log,     ..... 

178 

THOUGHTS  ON  THE  POETS. 

Goldsmith,         ..... 

191 

Pope, 

218 

Cowper,              ..... 

227 

Shelley, 

:    240 

Burns,    ...... 

262 

Wordsworth,            ..... 

276 

▼i 

CONTENTS. 

Page 

Coleridge, 

• 

.       290 

Mrs.  Hemans, 

. 

304 

Characteristics  of  Lamb, 

.       316 

MISCELLANY. 

The  Bachelor  Reclaimed,    . 

357 

Hair,       . 

• 

.      364 

Eye-Language, 

. 

371 

Art  and  Artists, 

. 

.      383 

The  Weather, 

. 

400 

Manner, 

.                      ,           , 

.      408 

Pet-Notions, 

. 

416 

Loitering, 

. 

.      421 

Broad  Views, 

. 

431 

SKETCHES. 


A    DAY    AT    RAVENNA. 


Shall  we  go  see  the  reUques  of  this  town  ? 

Twelfth  Night. 

On  a  gloomy  evening,  I  found  myself  crossing  the 
broad  plains  contiguous  to  the  ancient  city  of  Ravenna. 
These  extensive  fields  serve  chiefly  for  pasturage,  and 
their  monotonous  aspect  is  only  diversified  by  a  few 
stunted  trees  and  patches  of  rice.  Nearer  the  Adriatic, 
however,  the  eye  is  relieved  by  the  appearance  of  a  noble 
forest  of  pines,  which  extends  for  the  space  of  several 
miles  along  the  shore.  The  branches  of  these  trees,  as 
is  common  in  Italy,  have  been,  by  repeated  trimmings, 
concentrated  at  the  top  ;  and  most  of  them  being  lofty, 
a  complete  canopy  is  formed,  beneath  which  one  walks 
in  that  woodland  twilight  so  peculiar  and  impressive. 
The  effect  is  enhanced  here,  by  the  vicinity  of  the  sea, 
whose  mournful  anthem  or  soothing  music  mingles  with 
the  wind-hymns  of  the  forest  aisles.  As  we  emerged 
from  a  magnificent  church  that  stands  in  the  midst  of  this 
solitude,  the  interior  columns  of  which  were  transported 
from  Constantinople,  no  living  object  disturbed  the  pro- 


4  A    DAY    AT    RAVENNA. 

found  repose  of  the  scene,  but  a  group  of  fine  cattle, 
instinctively  obeying  the  intimations  of  nature,  and  slowly 
returning  to  their  domiciles.  I  found  no  difficulty  in 
realizing  that  this  scenery,  when  arrayed  in  the  dreamy 
influences  of  such  an  hour,  should  prove  congenial  to  the 
poetic  mood,  and  wondered  not  that  Byron,  during  his 
long  residence  at  Ravenna,  found  so  much  pleasure  in 
coursing  through  this  quiet  country,  and  along  the  adja- 
cent shore. 

The  old  city,  like  Venice,  to  whose  triumphant  arms, 
after  so  many  fierce  wars,  it  was  at  last  subjected,  rose 
from  the  marshes,  and,  although  apparently  at  a  consider- 
able distance  from  the  sea,  presents,  even  at  the  present 
day,  abundant  indications  of  its  marine  foundation  ;  and 
among  them,  the  traveller  observes  with  regret,  the 
obliterating  traces  of  a  humid  air,  in  the  discolored  and 
corroded  frescos  of  the  churches.  One  of  the  most 
valuable  of  these,  however,  has  been  singularly  well  pre- 
served, considering  that  it  has  withstood  the  combined 
effects  of  dampness  and  removal  from  its  original  posi- 
tion— a  process  involving  no  little  risk.  This  beautiful 
specimen  is  at  present  fixed  in  the  sacristy  of  the  cathe- 
dral.  It  represents  the  angel  visiting  Elijah  in  the 
desert ;  and  dimmed  as  are  its  tints  by  time  and  moisture, 
no  one  can  gaze  upon  the  sweet  face  of  the  angel,  radiant 
with  youth,  and  contrast  it  with  the  calm,  aged  counte- 
nance and  gray  locks  of  the  sleeping  prophet,  without 
recognizing  that  peculiar  grace  which  marks  the  creations 
of  Guido.  Happily,  some  of  the  most  ancient  vestiges 
of  art  discoverable  at  Ravenna,  exist  in  the  more  durable 


A    DAY   AT    RAVENNA*  O 

form  of  mosaics.     Several  of  the  churches,  but  particu- 
larly the  baptistry,  and   the  sepulchral  chamber   of  Galla 
Placida,  are  completely  lined  with  this  curious  species  of 
painting,  evidently  of  the  most  primitive  order. 

But  by  far  the  finest  antiquity,  is  the  edifice  called  the 
Rotunda,  which,  like  almost  every  similar  relic  in  Italy, 
with  equal  disregard  to  taste  and  propriety,  is  fitted  up  as 
a  modern  church.  This  building  is  the  mausoleum  of 
Theodoric.  It  is  without  the  walls,  and  approached 
through  an  avenue  of  poplars,  whose  yellow  leaves  rustled 
beneath  our  feet,  or  whirled  in  wild  eddies  over  the 
grass.  The  cloudy  sky  and  the  solitude  of  the  spot  were 
also  favorable  to  the  associations  of  the  scene.  The  form 
of  the  structure  is  circular,  and  the  dome  is  considered  a 
curiosity,  being  constructed  from  a  single  piece  of  marble. 
It  is  likewise  remarkable,  that  all  attempts  to  drain  the 
water  which  has  collected  beneath  the  building,  have 
proved  fruitless.  A  flight  of  steps  leads  to  the  interior, 
which  has  long  since  been  denuded  of  its  ornaments; 
and  the  porphyry  sarcophagus  which  surmounted  the 
structure,  and  contained  the  ashes  of  Theodoric,  has 
been  removed,  and  imbedded  in  the  walls  of  the  old 
building  supposed  to  have  been  his  palace.  I  could  not 
but  remark,  as  I  afterward  noted  this  ancient  urn,  the 
singular  combination  which  seems  to  attend  memorials 
of  past  greatness.  The  side  presented  to  view,  was 
covered  with  the  notices  of  public  sales  and  amusements, 
a  purpose  which  it  bad  evidently  long  subserved,  while 
the  mansion  itself  has  been  conveited  iato  a  wine 
magazine. 

I* 


6  A    DAY    AT    EAVENNA. 

The  fortifications  of  Ravenna,  which  were  obviously 
constructed  on  no  ordinary  scale,  have  fallen  into  decay. 
Traces  of  but  two  of  the  many  towers  designated  on  the  old 
charts,  are  discoverable  ;  and  a  city,  whose  obstinate  and 
prolonged  conflicts  with  the  Venitian  republic  are  alone 
sufficient  to  vindicate  the  warlike  character  of  its  ancient 
inhabitants,  now  furnishes  the  most  meagre  evidences  of 
former  activity  and  prowess.  The  few  soldiers  now  seen 
in  its  deserted  streets,  serve  not,  alas  !  to  defend  the  town 
or  enlarge  its  possessions,  but  minister  to  the  ignoble 
purpose  of  draining  its  wretched  inhabitants  of  their 
scanty  resources.  About  three  miles  from  one  of  the 
gates,  a  column  commemorates  the  fate  of  Gaston  De 
Foix.  This  brave  knight,  notwithstanding  his  extreme 
youth,  had  won  so  high  a  reputation  for  invincible  courage 
and  address,  that  he  was  intrusted  with  the  command  of 
the  French  troops,  then  struggling  for  the  possession  of 
Italy.  WTien  De  Foix  attacked  Ravenna,  it  was  vigor- 
ously  defended  by  Antonio  Colonna,  who,  in  anticipation 
of  his  design,  had  entrenched  himself  with  an  effective 
force  within  the  walls.  After  a  warm  conflict  on  the 
ramparts,  the  crumbling  remnants  of  which  still  attest 
their  former  extent  and  massive  workmanship,  during 
which  not  less  than  fifteen  hundred  men  perished  in  the 
space  of  four  hours,  the  invaders  were  compelled  to  with- 
draw.  At  the  instant  the  young  commander  was  rallying 
his  troops  for  a  second  assault,  he  was  informed  of  the 
approach  of  the  general  army.  They  were  soon  fortified 
about  three  miles  from  the  town,  and  the  French  warrior 
found  himself  in  a  situation  sufficiently  critical  to  damp 


A    DAY    AT    RAVENNA.  7 

the  ardor  of  the  best  tried  valor.  Before  him  was  his  old 
enemy,  of  whose  prowess  he  had  just  received  the  most 
signal  proof,  and  near  by,  a  fresh  and  vigorous  army, 
while  his  position  was  utterly  destitute  of  those  accommo- 
dations requisite  to  recruit  his  forces,  or  afford  the  neces- 
sary provisions  either  for  men  or  horses.  In  this  exi- 
gency, he  formed  the  resolution  to  force  the  army  to  a 
general  conflict.  Unfortunately  for  the  Italians,  the 
leader  of  their  Spanish  allies  differed  from  the  other  officers 
as  to  the  course  expedient  to  be  adopted  ;  the  one  party 
wishing  to  remain  within  the  entrenchments,  the  other 
advocating  a  general  rally  and  open  attack.  The  former 
prevailed.  The  adverse  armies  continued  to  cannonade 
each  other  for  a  considerable  time,  and  the  balance  of 
success  was  evidently  in  favor  of  the  allied  army,  when 
the  Duke  of  Ferrara  brought  his  highly  efficient  artillery 
to  bear  from  a  very  advantageous  position  in  flank.  So 
unremitted  and  annoying  was  the  fire,  that  the  allies 
were  at  length  obliged  to  rush  from  their  entrenchements, 
according  to  the  sanguine  wishes  of  De  Foix,  and  try 
the  fate  of  an  open  battle.  On  that  memorable  day,  the 
eleventh  of  April,  1512,  occurred  the  most  tremendous 
action  which  for  a  long  period  had  taken  place  on  the 
war-tried  soil  of  Italy.  As  one  wanders  over  the 
mouldering  bastions  and  solitary  campagna  of  Ravenna, 
and  pictures  the  spectacle  which  on  that  occasion  was 
here  beheld,  the  contrast  between  the  retrospect  and  the 
reality  is  singularly  impressive.  The  shock  of  the  meet- 
ing of  those  two  mighty  bodies  is  described  by  the  histo- 
rian of  the  period,  as  abounding  in  the  awfully  sublime. 


8  A    DAY    AT    RAVENNA. 

The  action  was  sustained  with  a  relentless  fierceness, 
that  soon  laid  the  flower  of  both  armies  in  the  dust. 
More  than  once,  the  impetuous  valor  of  the  Spanish  in- 
fantry threatened  to  decide  the  fortune  of  the  day  ;  but 
the  Italian  forces  were  at  length  compelled  to  fly,  leaving 
Cardinal  de  Medici,  other  illustrious  prisoners,  and  all 
their  artillery  and  equipages,  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy, 
besides  nine  thousand  of  their  number  dead  upon  the 
field.  The  French  loss  was  computed  as  still  greater. 
But  the  most  lamentable  event  of  the  occasion,  was 
the  fate  of  their  gallant  leader.  Flushed  with  victory,  he 
pursued  the  panting  squadrons  of  the  fugitives  with  unre- 
mitted ardor,  when,  as  he  flew  over  the  hard  fought  field, 
at  the  head  of  a  thousand  horse,  he  was  surrounded  and 
killed.  There  is  something  peculiarly  touching  in  the 
fate  of  this  young  chieftain.  He  had  scarcely  attained 
the  age  of  manhood,  and  was  already  regarded  as  the 
flower  of  the  French  chivalry.  Glowing  with  theenthu- 
siastic,  though  mistaken  zeal  of  the  period,  he  had  just 
led  his  soldiers  to  a  victory  eminently  fitted  to  increase 
the  fame  of  his  arms.  After  a  season  of  suspense,  which 
must  have  appeared  an  age  to  his  impatient  spirit,  he  had 
met  the  opposing  forces  on  the  open  field.  Lang,  des- 
perate, and  dubious  was  the  contest  ;  but  at  length  his 
gladdened  eye  saw  through  the  smoke  of  battle,  the  re- 
treating ranks  of  the  enemy  ;  his  enraptured  ear  caught, 
above  the  din  of  war,  the  victorious  shouts  of  his  soldiers. 
What  visions  of  glory  mu  t  have  gleamed  before  his  ima- 
gination, as  he  spurred  his  charger  over  the  conquered 
field  !     How  sweet  must  have  been  the  graiulaiions  of 


A    DAY    AT    RAVENNA.  9 

bis  country,  heard  in  exultant  fancy  !  The  lasting  tro- 
phies  of  valorous  renown  were  already  won,  and  he  was 
but  in  the  morning  of  life.  The  wreath  of  chivalric 
honor,  which  his  early  ambition  had  pictured  as  a  far-off 
boon,  was  already  his.  Yet,  in  that  moment  of  triumph- 
ant emotion,  when  he  felt  the  wreath  of  victory  pressing 
his  flushed  brow,  and  heard,  perhaps,  the  greeting  of  her 
whose  smile  would  be  the  sweetest  flower  in  his  garland 
of  renown,  the  fatal  rally  was  made,  and  the  gorgeous 
visions  of  gratified  ambition  were  suddenly  obscured  by 
the  mists  of  death  !  He  fell,  not  at  the  fearful  onset, 
when  despair  of  success  might  have  reconciled  him  to 
such  a  fate  ;  nor  in  the  midst  of  the  struggle,  when  the 
influence  of  his  example,  or  the  desire  of  revenge,  might 
have  urged  on  his  followers  to  yet  fiercer  effort  ;  but  at 
the  close  of  the  fight,  when  the  day  was  won,  at  the  in- 
stant when  the  clouds  of  doubt  broke  asunder,  and  the 
joyful  beams  of  success  blessed  his  sight.  At  such  a 
moment,  fell  the  young  and  valiant  Gaston  de  Foix. 

In  the  academy  at  Ravenna,  there  is  the  statue  of  a 
warrior  carved  in  white  marble.  The  name  of  the  sculp- 
tor is  not  well  authenticated  ;  but  the  work  seemed  to  me 
remarkably  well  calculated  to  deepen  the  associations 
which  environ  the  memory  of  the  French  knight.  The 
figure  is  completely  encased  in  armor,  and  sketched  in 
the  solemn  repose  of  death.  The  visor  of  the  helmet  is 
raised,  and  the  face  presents  that  rigid  expression,  which 
we  canaot  look  upon  without  awe.  The  very  eye-lids  are 
cut  with  such  a  lifeless  distinctness,  as  to  be  eloquent  of 
d  eath.     Thus,  thought  I,  fell  the  veil  of  dissolution  over 


10 


A    DAT    AT    RAVENIV'A. 


the  young  soldier,  whose  bravery  was  here  displayed. 
How  affecting,  with  the  story  of  his  valorous  energy 
fresh  in  the  memory,  to  gaze  upon  such  an  image,  and 
to  feel  that  thus  he  became  in  the  very  hour  of  his 
triumph  !  Erroneous  as  were  then  the  ends  of  youthful 
ambition,  yet  is  there  enough  of  nobleness  in  the  associa- 
lions  of  that  epoch,  to  hallow  its  ornaments  to  our  imagi- 
nation.  Comparing  them  with  the  selfish  and  narrow 
ideas  which  too  often  mark  the  manners  and  demean  the 
characters  of  our  day,  we  must  sometimes  lament,  that  if 
the  ignorance  and  barbarism  of  more  warlike  times  have 
departed,  so  has  also  much  of  their  high  and  almost  uni- 
versal spirit  of  honor,  gallantry  and  disinterestedness. 

Like  most  secondary  Italian  cities,  Ravenna  wears  the 
semblance  of  desertion.  At  noonday,  the  stranger  may 
often  walk  through  streets  deficient  neither  in  spaciousness 
nor  noble  dwellings,  and  yet  encounter  no  being,  nor  hear 
a  sound  indicative  of  life,  far  less  of  active  prosperity. 
This  was  the  case,  to  a  remarkable  degree,  on  the  day  of 
my  visit,  as  it  occurred  during  the  month  of  October,  when, 
according  to  the  Italian  custom,  most  of  the  nobility  were 
at  their  villas  ;  and  the  sanitary  restrictions  established 
on  account  of  the  cholera  then  raging  in  some  parts  of  the 
country,  had  greatly  diminished  the  usual  numbers  of  pass- 
ing travellers.  In  the  piazza,  at  some  hours  of  the  day, 
there  is  a  little  life-like  appearance,  from  the  assemblage 
of  buyers  and  sellers,  and,  at  early  evening,  the  princi- 
pal caffe  exhibits  the  usual  motley  company  collected  to 
smoke  and  talk  scandal,  or  to  pore  over  the  few  journals 
which  the  jealousy  of  the  government  permits  to  find  their 


A    DAY    AT    RAVENNA.  11 

way  into  the  country.  These  restricted  vehicles  of  conn- 
munication  consist  of  little  else  than  an  epitome  from 
the  French  journals,  of  the  most  important  political  and 
other  passing  events,  collected  and  arranged  with  as  little 
reference  to  order  and  connection,  as  can  well  be  ima- 
gined. It  is  owing  to  the  garbled  and  confused  no- 
tions derived  from  these  paltry  gazettes,  to  which  many 
even  of  the  better  class  of  Italians  confine  their  reading, 
that  there  prevails  in  this  country  such  profound  igno- 
ranee  of  the  most  familiar  places  and  facts.  Some  of  the 
ideas  existing  in  regard  to  the  United  States,  afford  good 
illustration  of  this  remark.  A  retired  merchant,  who  was 
travelling  in  very  genteel  style,  once  asked  me  if  Joseph 
Bonaparte  was  still  king  of  America.  A  monk  of 
Genoa,  who  was  my  companion  in  a  voiture  in  Lom- 
bardy,  opened  his  eyes  in  astonishment  when  informed 
that  it  was  more  than  half  a  century  since  we  had  ceased 
to  be  an  English  colony  ;  and  another  friar,  whose  ideas 
of  geography  were  in  rather  a  confused  state,  observed 
that  he  considered  mine  a  very  aristocratic  country,  judg- 
ing from  what  he  had  read  of  our  president,  Santa  Anna. 
A  young  Tuscan,  of  respectable  standing,  inquired  if  one 
could  go  from  Italy  to  America,  without  passing  jhrough 
Madagascar  ;  and  a  signora  of  some  pretensions  begged 
in  a  very  pathetic  voice,  to  know.if  we  were  much  annoyed 
with  tigers  !  • 

Life,  for  the  most  part  in  these  reduced  towns,  accords 
with  the  limited  scope  of  the  prevailing  ideas.  The 
morning  is  lounged  away  in  listlessness  ;  the  ride  after 
dinner,  and  the  convei^sazmie  in  the  evening,  being  the 


12 


A    DAT    AT    RAVENNA. 


only  csfensible  occupation,  except  during  the  carnivgl, 
when  some  theatricnl  or  other  entertainment  is  gene- 
rally provided.  Those  ot"  the  resident  nobility  who  can 
afford  it.  usually  travel  half  the  year,  and  economize  the 
remainder.  And  if,  among  the  better  class,  there  are 
those  whose  range  of  knowledge  is  more  extensive,  or 
whose  views  are  nobler,  the  greater  part  soon  reconcile 
themselvps  to  a  series  of  trifling  pursuits,  or  idle  dissipa- 
tion, as  the  appropriate  offsets  to  their  hopeless  destiny. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  a  rare  spirit  is  encountered,  superior 
to  the  ma^s,  and  incapable  of  compromising  either  prin- 
ciple or  opinions,  however  objectless  it  may  seem  to 
cherish  them  ;  and  there  are  few  more  interesting  cha- 
racters than  are  such  men,  in  the  view  of  the  thoughtful 
philanthropist  ;  beings  superior  to  their  associates,  and 
worthy  of  a  better  fate  ;  men  who,  amid  degrading  poli- 
tical and  social  circumstances,  have  the  strength  and  ele- 
vation of  mind  to  think  and  teel  nobly,  and  seek  by  com- 
munion  with  the  immortal  spirits  of  the  past,  or  by  ele- 
vating anticipations,  consolation  for  the  weariness  and 
gloom  of  the  present.  Occasionally,  too,  in  such  de- 
cayed cities,  the  stranger  meets  with  those  who,  cut  off 
from  political  advantages,  and  possessed  of  wealth,  have 
devoted  themselves  to  the  pursuits  of  taste,  and  their 
palaces  and  gardens  amply  repay  a  visit.  Such  is  the 
case  with  the  eccentric  Ruspini,  one  of  the  Ravenese 
nobility,  whose  gallery  contains  many  valuable  and  inter- 
esting productions  of  art. 

At  an  angle  of  one  of  the  by-streets  of  Ravenna,  is  a 
Email  building  by  no  means  striking,  either  as  regards 


A    DAY    AT    RAVENiVA.  13 

its  architecture  or  decorations.  It  is  fronted  by  a  gate  of 
open  iron-work,  surmounted  by  a  cardinal's  hat — indicat- 
ing that  the  structure  was  raised  or  renovated  by  some 
church  dignitary,  a  class  who  appear  invariably  scrupu- 
lous to  memorialize,  by  inscriptions  and  emblems,  what- 
ever public  work  they  see  fit  to  promote.  A  stranger 
might  pass  this  little  edifice  unheeded,  standing  as  it  does 
at  a  lonely  corner,  and  wearing  an  aspect  of  neglect  ; 
but  as  the  eye  glances  through  the  railing  of  the  portal,  it 
instinctively  rests  on  a  small  and  time-stained  bas-relief, 
in  the  opposite  wall,  representing  that  sad,  stern,  and 
emaciated  countenance,  which,  in  the  form  of  busts,  en- 
gravings, frescos,  and  portraits,  haunts  the  traveller  in 
every  part  of  Italy.  It  is  a  face  so  strongly  marked  with 
the  sorrow  of  a  noble  and  ideal  mind,  that  there  is  no 
need  of  the  laurel  wreath  upon  the  head,  to  assure  us  that 
we  look  upon  the  lineaments  of  a  poet.  And  who  could 
fail  to  stay  his  feet,  and  still  the  current  of  his  wandering 
thoughts  to  a  deeper  flow,  when  he  reads  upon  the  enta- 
blature of  the  little  temple,  *  Sepulchrum  Dantis  Poetce,  V 
It  is  not  necessary  that  one  should  have  solved  the  mys. 
teries  of  the  Divina  Commedia,  in  order  to  feel  the  solemn 
interest  which  attaches  to  the  spot  where  the  bones  of  its 
author  repose.  It  is  enough  to'  know  that  we  are  stand- 
ing by  the  tomb  of  a  man  who,  in  early  boyhood,  loved  y 
and  cherished  the  deep  affection  then  born,  after  its  ob- 
ject was  removed  from  the  world,  through  a  life  of  the 
greatest  vicissitude,  danger,  and  grief,  making  it  a  foun- 
tain of  poetic  inspiration,  and  a  golden  link  which  bound 
him  to  the   world  of  spirits  ;  a   quenchless   sentiment, 

2 


14  A    DAY    AT    RAVENNA, 

whose  intensity  vivified  and  hallowed  existence.  It  is 
sufficient  to  remember,  that  we  are  near  the  ashes  of  a 
man  who  proved  himself  a  patriot,  and  when  made  the 
victim  of  political  faction,  and  banished  from  his  home, 
wrapped  himself  in  the  mantle  of  silent  endurance,  and 
suffered  with  a  dignified  heroism,  that  challenges  univer- 
sal sympathy  and  respect.  It  is  sufficient  to  reflect  that 
the  people  who  had  persecuted  the  gifted  Florentine  when 
living,  have  long  vainly  petitioned  those  among  whom  he 
^ied,  for  the  privilege  of  transporting  his  revered  remains 
to  the  rich  monument  prepared  for  them  ;  and  that  a 
permanent  professorship,  to  elucidate  his  immortal  poem, 
is  founded  by  the  very  city  from  which  he  was  ignobly 
spurned.  It  is  enough  that  we  see  before  us  the  sepul- 
chre of  a  man  who  had  the  intellect  and  courage  to  think 
beyond  and  above  his  age,  who  revived  into  pristine 
beauty  a  splendid  but  desecrated  language  ;  who  fully 
vindicated  his  title. to  the  character  of  a  statesman,  a  sol- 
dier, and  a  poet  ;  and  in  a  warlike  and  violent  age,  had 
the  magnanimity  to  conceive,  and  the  genius  to  create, 
au  imperishable  monument  of  intellectual  revenge. 


THE     CHOLERA    IN    SICILY 


"The  blessed  seals 

Which  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 

And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke." 

Hallech 

In  the  modern  history  of  pestilence,  there  are  few 
records  which  can  parallel,  for  scenes  of  horror  and  cease- 
less havoc,  the  course  of  the  cholera  in  Sicily  during  the 
summer  of  1837.  For  many  months  previous  to  the 
outbreak  of  the  disease,  the  commerce  of  the  country  had 
been  essentially  diminished,  by  a  series  of  rigid  and  ab- 
surd quarantines  ;  and  so  obstinate  are  the  people  in 
their  belief  that  the  complaint  is  contagious,  that  they 
still  persist  in  ascribing  its  appearance  in  their  capital 
to  the  introduction  of  contraband  goods  from  Naples, 
where  it  was  then  raging.  Notwithstanding  these  pre- 
cautionary measures,  no  preparation  was  made  in  case 
they  should  prove  unavailing,  so  that  when  the*  dreaded 
enemy  arrived,  the  ignorance  and  poverty  of  the  lower 
orders,  and  the  utter  absence  of  remedial  arrangements 


16  THE    CHOLERA.    IN    SICILY. 

ou  the  part  of  the  governmeut,  gave  free  scope  to  its 
awful  energies.  A  still  more  shameful  cause  of  the  fatal 
triumph  which  it  subsequently  achieved,  is  to  he  found  ia 
the  pusillanimous  conduct  of  the  physicians  and  agents 
of  police,  many  of  whom  fled  at  the  first  announcement 
of  danger.  For  weeks  the  multitudinous  precincts  of 
the  city  presented  naught  but  the  trophies  of  disease  and 
Geath.  In  many  instances  the  bodies  were  thrown  into 
the  streets  ;  and  not  uufrequeutly  from  the  carts  which 
removed  them,  might  be  heard  the  groans  of  some  poor 
wretch  prematurely  numbered  among  the  dead.  As  a 
last  resort,  the  galley  slaves  were  offered  their  liberty  upon 
condition  of  burying  the  victims  ;  but  fev/  survived  to 
enjoy  the  dearly  purchased  boon.  The  strength  of  the 
poor  nuns  finally  became  inadequate  to  transporting  the 
rapidly  increasing  bodies  to  the  gates  of  the  convents, 
and  these  asylums  were  necessarily  broken  open  by  the 
becci.  These  wretches  nightly  made  the  circuit  of  the 
deserted  streets,  by  the  light  of  numerous  fires  of 
pitch,  kept  burning  at  long  intervals,  with  a  view  of 
purifying  the  air.  They  sat  upon  the  heap  of  livid 
corses  piled  up  in  their  carts;  stopping  at  each  house 
where  a  light  glimmering  in  the  balcony  indicated  that 
their  senices  were  required.  Entering  without  cere- 
mony, they  hastily  stripped  the  body,  and  placing  it  on 
the  cart,  resumed  their  progress,  generally  singing  as 
they  went,  under  the  influence  of  intoxication  or  unna- 
tural excitement.  Arrived  at  the  Campo  Santo,  their 
burdens  were  quickly  deposited  in  huge  pits,  and  the 
same  course  repeated  until  sunrise.    It  is  remarkable,  that 


THE    CHOLERA  IN  SICILY.  17 

of  one  hundred  and  fifty-six  of  those  regularly  employed 
in  this  way,  but  three  fell  victims  to  the  cholera. 

The  low  situation  of  Palermo,  surrounded  as  it  is  by 
high  mountains,  and  built  nearly  on  a  level  with  the  sea 
doubtless  augmented  the  virulence  of  the  disease.  Du- 
ring several  days  in  July,  a  strong  sirocco  wind  prevailed  ; 
and  no  one  who  has  not  experienced  the  suffocating  and 
dry  heat  of  this  formidable  atmosphere,  can  realize  the 
complete  lassitude  it  brings,  both  upon  mind  and  body. 
Engendered  amid  the  burning  sands  of  Africa,  even  its 
flight  across  the  sea  chastens  not  the  intensity  of  its  heat* 
It  broods  over  the  fertile  valley  in  which  the  Sicilian 
capital  stands,  with  the  still  and  scorching  intensity  of 
noon-day  in  the  desert.  The  laborers  crouch  beneath 
the  shadow  of  the  walls  in  weary  listlessness.  The 
nobility  take  refuge  on  the  couch  or  in  the  bath.  The 
paper  on  the  escritoir  curls  in  jts  breath  like  the  sensitive 
plant  at  the  human  touch  ;  and  vases  of  water  are  con- 
stantly filled  beneath  the  piano-forte,  that  the  thin  case  of 
the  instrument  may  not  crack  asunder.  The  fresh  ver- 
dure of  the  fields  withers  before  it,  and  the  solitary  streets, 
at  the  meridian  hour,  proclaim  its  fearful  presence.  The 
occurrence  of  a  sirocco  soon  after  the  advent  of  the 
cholera,  greatly  augmented  its  ravages.  Literally  might 
it  be  said,  that  the  pestilence  came  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind  ;  and,  unlike  its  course  in  other  countries,  it  pri- 
marily attacked  foreigners  and  the  higher  class  of  natives. 

But  a  few  days  prior  to  its  appearance,  I  left  Palermo 
for  the  other   side  of  the  island.     The  spring  had  been 
unusually    fine.      Daily    excursions,   at    that    luxurious 
2* 


IS  THE    CHOLEKA    IN    SICILY. 

season,  nowhere  more  redolent  of  beauty  than  in  Sicily, 
had  made  me  familiar  with  the  rich  scenery  of  the  '  golden 
shell.'  The  same  friends  whose  society  enlivened  these 
excursions,  brightened  the  conversazione  with  pleasant 
intercourse  and  kindly  interchange  of  feeling.  It  was 
with  something  of  a  heavy  heart  that,  on  a  brilliant  day, 
I  gazed  on  the  fast-fading  outline  of  a  prospect  interest- 
ing  from  its  intrinsic  beauty,  and  endeared  by  habit  and 
association.  A  young  countryman,  who  had  been  my 
companion  for  many  months,  bade  me  farewell  at  the 
mole.  We  parted  with  many  assurances  of  a  pleasant 
meeting  in  a  few  weeks  on  the  same  spot,  to  enjoy 
together  the  festivities  of  St.  Rosalia — the  great  national 
festival  of  the  Palermitans,  and  one  of  the  most  splendid 
in  Europe.  As  we  glided  out  of  the  beautiful  bay,  my 
eye  ranged  along  the  palaces  which  line  the  Marina,  till 
it  rested  instinctively  upon  the  hospitable  mansion  of  the 
American  Consul — a  gentleman  whose  home-taught  pro- 
bity and  application,  and  whose  attachment  to  the  princi- 
ples of  his  country  and  the  persons  of  his  countrymen 
never  swerved  during  more  than  twenty  years'  residence 
amid  the  enervating  influences  of  the  South.  I  knew 
that  in  that  mansion,  there  was  at  that  hour  a  gathering 
of  social  spirits,  and  remembered  the  kindly  pleasantry 
with  which  the  host  had  interposed  his  consular  authority 
to  prevent  my  departure,  in  order  that  I  might  make  one 
of  the  guests.  I  turned  to  Monreale,  perched  so  pictur- 
esquely on  the  mountain  range  above  the  town,  and 
gazed  upon  the  bold  promontory  of  Mount  Pelegrino, 
rising  like  the  guardian  genius  of  the  scene,  in  solitary 


TUE    CHOLEKA    IN     SICILY.  19 

grandeur  from  the  sea.  With  the  aid  of  a  telescope,  I 
could  trace  the  neat  promenade  upon  which  I  had  so 
often  walked,  unconscious  of  the  passage  of  time,  as  the 
tones  of  friendly  converse  soothed  my  ear,  or  the  passing 
glance  of  beauty  cheered  my  sight.  And  as  we  were 
rounding  the  last  point  and  fast  losing  sight  of  every 
familiar  object,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  ancient  and 
noble  dome  of  St.  Guiseppe,  beneath  whose  shadow  was 
the  dwelling  of  one  whose  melody  had  often  stirred  my 
weary  pulse,  and  still  rang  sweetly  in  my  memory.  At 
length  the  distant  mountains  covered  with  mist,  alone 
met  my  eager  view.  The  night  wind  rose  with  a  solemn 
wildness,  and  the  gloomy  roar  of  the  sea  chimed  in  with 
the  shadowy  tenor  of  my  parting  thoughts.  But  the  idea 
of  soon  revisiting  the  pleasant  friends  and  favorite  haunts 
I  was  quitting,  soon  solaced  me  ;  and  the  next  morning, 
when  I  ascended  to  the  deck,  and  found  our  gallant  vessel 
cleaving  the  blue  waters  before  an  exhilarating  breeze 
and  beneath  a  summer  sky,  cheering  anticipations 
soon  usurped  the  place  of  unavailing  regret. 

A  few  long  summer  days,  and  what  a  change  came 
over  that  scene  of  tranquil  fertility  and  busy  life  !  They 
whose  smiling  adieus  seemed  so  significant  of  a  speedy 
reunion,  were  no  more.  The  youth  whose  manly 
beauty  and  buoyant  spirits  I  had  so  often  noted  on  the 
promenade  and  in  the  ball-room — the  leader  in  every 
plan  of  social  amusement,  the  first  to  start  the  humorous 
thought,  and  the  last  to  prolong  the  joyous  laugh  ;  he 
whose  prime  found  every  energy  at  the  height  of  action, 
and  life's   plan   widening  with  success  ;    and  the   fair 


20  THE    CHOLERA    IX    SICILY. 

creature  to  whose  meek  brow  I  was  wont  to  look  for  the 
sweetest  impress  of  woman's  dignity,  as  her  voice  was 
attuned  to  the  softest  and  most  intelligent  expression  of 
woman's  mind — all,  as  it  were,  struck  out  from  the  face 
ef  the  earth — gone  from  the  freshest  presence  of  Nature 
and  the  thoughtful  scenes  of  an  absorbing  being,  to  the 
dark  and  solitary  grave  ! 

Of  a  population  of  one  hundred  and  seventy  thousand, 
according  to  the  last  census  of  Palermo,  within  the  space 
of  two  months,  thirty-seven  thousand  were  swept  off: 
and  within  the  city,  the  number  of  interments  in  a  single 
day,  when  the  disease  was  at  its  height,  amounted  to 
three  thousand  five  hundred.  Appalling  as  is  the  bare 
mention  of  such  details,  they  are  less  calculated  to  shock 
the  imagination  and  sicken  the  heart,  than  many  of  the 
subordinate  and  contingent  scenes  attending  the  pesti- 
lence. There  is  such  a  mystery  and  superhuman  des- 
tructiveness  in  the  rise  and  progress  of  a  fell  contagion, 
that  the  mind  is  awed  as  at  the  solemn  fulfilment  of  a 
divine  ordination.  But  when  the  unrestrained  and 
savage  play  of  human  passions  mingles  wdth  the  tragic 
spectacle  of  disease  and  death,  absolute  horror  usurps  the 
place  of  every  milder  sentiment,  and  we  are  I'eady  to  be- 
lieve that  the  pestilence  has  maddened  the  very  seul,  and 
despoiled  humanity  of  her  true  attributes.  To  under- 
stand the  scenes  of  violence  and  atrocity  which  w^ere 
almost  of  daily  occurrence  during  the  existence  of  the 
cholera  in  Sicily,  it  is  necessary  to  remember  the  circum- 
stances and  temperament  of  the  people.  Perhaps  in  no 
spot  of  earlh  do  the  extremes  of  civilized  and  savage  life 


THE    CHOLERA    IN  SICILY.  21 

SO  nearly  approach  each  other  as  in  this  rich  and  ancient 
island.  Scattered  over  the  kingdom,  there  are  countless 
beings  in  a  state  of  ignorance  and  poverty  which,  but 
for  ocular  proof,  we  should  suppose  could  not  co-exist 
with  the  indications  of  social  refinement  observable  in 
the  principal  cities.  These  unhappy  victims  of  want  and 
superstition  possess  passions  which,  like  the  fires  of  iEtna, 
break  forth  with  exhaustless  energy,  and  when  once 
aroused,  lead  to  consequences  which  it  is  impossible  to 
foresee  or  imagine.  Crushed  to  the  earth  by  exorbitant 
taxation,  and  every  national  feeling  insulted  by  the 
galling  presence  of  a  foreign  military,  it  is  scarcely  a 
matter  of  ^rprise  that  when  the  long- dreaded  cholera 
appeared  among  them,  aggravated  in  its  symptoms  by 
the  climate,  and  every  moment  presenting  the  most  har- 
rowing spectacles  in  the  streets  and  by  the  way-side,  they 
should  readily  adopt  the  idea  that  their  oppressors  had 
resorted  to  poison,  as  a  means  of  ridding  themselves  of  a 
superfluous  and  burdensome  population.  Nor  are  there 
ever  wanting  in  every  country,  designing  men,  who, 
from  the  basest  motives  of  self-aggrandizement,  are  ready 
and  willing  to  inflame  the  popular  mind  even  to  frenzy, 
if,  in  its  tumultuous  outbreak,  their  own  purposes  are 
likely  to  be  subserved.  Such  men  are  neither  restrained 
by  an  idea  of  the  awful  machinery  they  are  putting  in  mo- 
tion^or  the  thought  of  their  eventual  danger;  desperate 
in  their  fortunes,  they  re-enact  the  scenes  of  Cataline, 
and  few  are  the  epochs  or  the  communities  which  can 
furnish  a  Cicero  to  lay  bare  their  mock-patriotism  and 
bring  speedy  ruin  upon  their  projects,  by  exposing  their 


22  THE    CHOLERA    IN    SICILY. 

turpitude.  Were  an  unvarnished  history  written  of  the 
outrages  which  took  place  in  Sicily  in  the  summer  of 
1837,  it  would  scarcely  be  credited  as  a  true  record  of 
events  which  actually  transpired  in  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury  ;  and  while  indignation  would.be  deeply  aroused 
against  the  acts  themselves,  a  new  and  more  earnest  pro- 
test would  be  entered  in  every  enlightened  mind  against 
the  barbarous  abuses  of  political  authority — the  long,  dark,' 
and  incalculable  evils  for  which  despotism  is  accountable 
to  humanity. 

In  many  places,  the  cry  of  '^  a  poisoner  !"  was  suffi. 
cient  to  gather  an  infuriated  mob  around  any  person 
attached  to  the  municipal  government,  or  up^p  whom  the 
absurd  suspicions  of  the  populace  could  with  the  slightest 
plausibility,  fix.  The  unfortunate  and  innocent  indivi- 
dual thus  attacked,  immediately  found  himself  at  the 
mercy  of  a  lawless  crowd,  in  whose  excited  faces,  flushed 
with  a  stern  and  ferocious  purpose,  no  hope  of  escape 
was  to  be  read;  he  was  frequently  struck  to  the  earth, 
pinioned,  and  dragged,  by  means  of  a  long  cord,  through 
the  streets,  the  revengeful  throng  rushing  behind  with 
taunts  and  imprecations.  In  more  than  one  instance, 
the  heart  of  the  poor  wretch  was  torn  out  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  his  friends.  The  fate  of  one  of  these 
unhappy  victims  to  popular  fury  was  singularly  awful. 
He  was  one  of  the  middle  order  of  citizens — a  class 
among  whom  was  manifested  more  firmness  and  mutual 
fidelity,  during  the  pestilence,  than  in  any  other  ;  for  the 
nobility,  pampered  by  indulgence  into  habits  of  intense 
gelfishness,  and  the  lowest  order,  driven  to  despair  by  the 


THE    CHOLERA    IN    SlClLY.  23 

extremity  of  their  sufferings,  too  often  entirely  forgot  the 
ties  of  parentage  and  the  claims  of  natural  affection,  chil- 
dren abandoning  parents,  and  husbands  wives,  with  the 
most  remorseless  indifference.  But  among  that  indus- 
trious class,  in  which  the  domestic  virtues  seem  always  to 
take  the  deepest  root  and  to  flourish  with  the  greatest 
luxuriance,  there  were  numberless  unknown  and  unre- 
corded instances  of  the  noblest  self-devotion.  It  was  tc 
this  rank  that  the  unfortunate  man  belonged,  and  his 
only  daughter  to  whom  he  was  tenderly  attached,  having 
been  carried  off  by  the  cholera,  in  the  hope  of  saving  his 
own  life  and  that  of  his  two  sons,  they  left  the  city  and 
fled  towards  Grazia,  a  town  in  the  interior.  Before  they 
reached  their  destination,  the  father  was  attacked  by  the 
disease,  and  it  became  necessary  to  seek  refuge  in  the 
first  convent.  Here  his  sons  nursed  him  for  several  days, 
until,  being  slightly  affected  with  symptoms  of  the  malady, 
the  elder  returned  to  Palermo  in  order  to  procure  medi- 
cine and  other  necessaries.  During  his  absence,  an  old 
woman  whom  they  employed  as  a  laundress,  discovered 
in  the  pocket  of  one  of  their  garments  several  pills  com- 
posed of  Rhubarb  and  other  simple  substances,  which  had 
been  procured  in  the  city  to  be  used  in  case  of  emergency. 
She  immediately  displayed  them  to  the  peasants  in  the 
vicinity,  declaring  her  conviction  that  the  invalid  was  a 
poisoner.  This  evidence  was  sufficient.  They  rushed 
to  the  convent,  drew  the  sick  man  from  his  bed,  and  beat 
him  unmercifully.  Meantime  some  of  the  party  collected 
a  quantity  of  straw  and  wood,  and  binding  the  younger  son 
upon  the  pile,  set  fire  to  it  before  the  father's  eyes,  whom, 


24  THE    CHOLERA.    ^N    SICILV. 

having  again  beaten,  they  also  threw  upon  the  flames, 
and  burned  them  both  alive.  Soon  after,  the  elder  son 
returned,  having  received  medical  advice  in  Palermo 
which  entirely  restored  him.  Surprised  at  finding  his 
father's  room  vacant,  he  inquired  for  his  brother  of  a  little 
boy,  who  replied  by  leading  him  to  the  spot  where  the 
charred  remains  lay  ;  his  violent  demonstrations  of  grief 
soon  attracted  attention  ;  his  relationship  to  the  two  vic- 
tims was  discovered,  and  nought  but  the  timely  interfer- 
ence of  an  influential  individual  residing  near,  saved  him 
Irom  sharing  their  fate. 

The  cholera  appeared  in  Syracuse  early  in  July. 
About  the  middle  of  that  month,  strong  indications  were 
manifested  on  the  part  of  the  people  of  a  disposition  to 
revolt ;  and  the  public  authorities  were  convened  to 
deliberate  on  the  subject.  There  is  no  question  that  in 
this  place  the  fears  of  the  multitude  were  excited  by  de- 
signing men.  The  shop  of  a  bread-seller  was  forcibly 
entered,  and  several  loaves  paraded  about  the  streets  as 
poisoned,  doubtless  with  the  express  purpose  of  collect- 
ing a  mob.  This  was  soon  accomplished,  and  the  dis- 
aflected  throng  next  proceeded  to  the  residence  of  an 
apothecary,  upon  whom  their  suspicions  fell,  and,  having 
taken  him  to  the  public  square,  murdered  him.  The 
Commissary  of  Police  next  fell  a  victim  to  their  fury. 
The  Intendant,  hearing  that  the  mob  were  approaching, 
made  his  escape  by  a  by-lane,  and  applied  to  a  boatman 
to  convey  him  beneath  the  walls  of  the  citadel.  The 
boatman  refused,  and  he  was  obliged  to  fly  to  the  country. 
His  pursuers,  however,  soon  discovered  the  direction  he 


THE    CHOLERA    IN    SICILY.  25 

had  taken,  and,  following  with  bloodhounds,  traced  him 
to  a  cavern  called  the  Grotto,  whence  he  was  drawn  and 
dragged  into  the  city,  where,  after  suffering  many  outrages, 
he  was  murdered  before  the  image  of  the  patron  saint. 
The  next  morning  the  Inspector  of  Police,  his  son,  and 
several  other  citizens,  lost  their  lives.  An  old  blind  man 
was  seized  upon,  and  threatened  with  death  if  he  did  not 
give  up  the  names  of  his  accomplices.  To  save  his  life, 
and  doubtless  prompted  by  some  malicious  persons,  he 
gave  a  list  of  respectable  citizens,  most  of  whom  were 
instantly  seized  and  put  to  death.  Meanwhile,  similar 
sanguinary  proceedings  were  making  many  of  the  minor 
towns  of  the  island  scenes  of  outrage  and  blood ;  and  as 
the  populace  of  Syracuse  grew  emboldened  by  success, 
they  published  and  circulated  a  proclamation  addressed  to 
their  countrymen,  commencing  "  Sicilians  !  Trie  cholera, 
that  dreadful  disease,  which  has  so  long  been  the  terror 
of  Europe,  has  at  length  found  its  grave  in  the  city  of 
Archimedes,"  &c.  going  on  to  attribute  it  to  poison,  and 
calling  upon  their  countrymen  to  eradicate  it  by  removing 
the  government  which  introduced  it. 

Towards  the  last  of  July,  a  report  was  spread  in  Catania, 
that  Major  Simoneschi,  of  the  gendarmerie,  had  taken  re- 
fuge  in  the  monastery  of  the  Benedictines,  and  that  he 
was  a  distributor  of  the  poisons  which  had  desolated  Na- 
ples and  Palermo.  A  crowd  collected  under  the  direction 
of  several  individuals  of  the  rank  of  lawyers,  brokers  and 
mechanics,  who  assaulted  the  monastery,  but  not  finding 
the  person  they  sought,  soon  dispersed.  As  no  notice 
was  taken  of  these  proceedings  by  the  civil  authorities, 


26  THE    CHOLERA    IN    SICILY. 

the  mob  were  encouraged,  and,  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days,  attacked  the  police  and  other  public  offices,  in  order 
to  possess  themselves  of  the  weapons  there  deposited. 
On  the  same  day,  the  manifesto  of  the  Syracusans  arrived, 
was  immediately  reprinted  by  the  rebel  Catanese  and  sent 
off  to  Messina  with  a  band  to  excite  a  mob  there  also. 
The  town,  however,  was  then  under  the  protection  of  a 
civic  guard  ;  and  all  attempts  to  excite  disturbances  were 
vain.  On  the  same  evening,  the  Catanese  arrested  the 
Intendente,  Procuratore  Generale,  and  the  commander  of 
the  gendarmerie,  as  persons  suspected  of  distributing  poi- 
son,  and  confined  them  under  guard  in  the  house  of  one 
of  their  nobility.  They  then  formed  a  Council  of  Secu- 
rity, and  raised  the  yellow  flag  in  token  of  Sicilian  Inde- 
pendence. The  Intendente  and  Procuratore  were  forced 
to  swear  allegiance  to  the  new  government,  and  were 
then  set  at  liberty — although  their  freedom  was  all  but 
nominal,  as  they  were  kept  under  the  strictest  surveillance. 
The  garrison,  being  small  and  inefficient,  was  soon  dis- 
armed. An  original  manifesto  was  published,  declarative 
of  the  good  deeds  and  purposes  of  the  rebels.  The  bells 
of  the  churches  were  taken  from  their  towers  to  be  mould- 
ed into  cannon.  The  pictures  of  the  royal  family  were 
collected  from  the  various  public  edifices  and  demolished, 
the  statue  of  Francesco  torn  from  its  pedestal,  destroyed 
by  order  of  the  government,  and  the  revolutionary  stan- 
dard displayed  in  its  place. 

The  slight  opposition  with  which  these  movements  in 
Sicily  were  met  by  the  representatives  of  the  government, 
indicates  the  frail  tenure  by  which  Naples  holds  dominion 


THE    CHOLERA    IN    SICILY.  27 

over  the  island.  And  when  at  length  measures  were 
adopted  to  quell  the  disturbances,  new  scenes  of  horror 
succeeded.  The  Marquis  Del  Carretto  was  commissioned 
by  the  King  to  make  the  circuit  of  the  island  and  inflict 
summary  justice  upon  all  implicated  in  the  recent  trans- 
actions. This  officer  appears  to  have  been  singularly 
fitted  for  his  sanguiary  vocation.  Had  the  victims  to 
martial  law  whom  he  caused  to  be  sacrificed,  been  confined 
to  the  conspicuous  among  the  mob,  or  even  to  such  as 
had  openly  identified  themselves  with  the  violent  deeds  of 
the  populace,  we  might  consider  him  in  some  measure 
justified  by  the  circumstances  and  occasion,  in  making 
such  an  example  as  would  prevent  the  farther  eff'usion  of 
human  blood. — But  many  an  act  of  the  most  aggravated 
tyranny  and  cruel  proscription  perpetrated  by  Del  Carret- 
to, under  the  pretence  of  restoring  public  order,  will  long 
be  remembered  with  indignation. 

There  is  a  class  of  educated  Sicilians,  and  chivalrous 
youth,  who  have  cherished  the  hope  of  effecting  the  inde- 
pendence of  their  country,  by  means  and  at  a  period  alto- 
gether diff*erent  from  those,  into  which  the  pestilence  pre- 
cipitated  the  fiery  hearts  of  the  less  informed  and  the  de- 
luded. In  the  midst  of  the  various  and  contending  revo- 
lutionary elements  then  convulsing  Sicily,  there  were  not 
a  few  noble,  ardent,  and  truly  patriotic  spirits  who  saw  in 
the  course  of  events  consequent  upon  the  cholera,  a  still 
longer  postponement  of  their  dearest  hopes — a  still  wider 
chasm  yawning  between  anticipated  and  realized  freedom. 
The  unfitness  of  the  mass  for  the  boon  of  self-govern- 
ment was  made  appallingly  obvious.     The  gradual,  heal- 


28  THE    CHOLERA.    IN    SICILY. 

thy  spread  of  liberal  sentiment  was  suddenly  checked. 
The  government,  long  jealous  and  anxious  for  an  occa- 
sion to  inspire  the  people  with  fear,  seized  upon  this  mo- 
ment to  remove  the  most  influential  advocates  of  free 
principles  from  the  pathway  of  liberty.  If  the  revolution- 
ists availed  themselves  of  the  cholera  to  excite  the  multi- 
tude against  the  government,  the  latter  took  no  small  ad- 
vantages of  the  excesses  of  the  people  to  revenge  them- 
selves upon  the  daring,  intelligent  and  quiet  promulgators 
of  those  truths  which  lie  at  the  foundation  cf  all  success- 
ful innovation.  Many  a  gifted  young  man  was  sentenced 
to  die  in  two  hours,  upon  the  bare  evidence  of  having  ut. 
tered  or  written  some  expression  indicating  his  hostility 
to  foreign  dominion  ;  and  not  a  small  portion  of  the  flow- 
er of  the  Sicilian  youth  were  chased  by  a  Neapolitan  ves- 
sel of  war  beyond  Elba — rending  the  air,  as  they  flew 
before  the  breeze,  with  the  glad  strains  of  the  Marsellaise. 
One  of  the  King's  manifestos  threatened  with  death  all 
who  should  believe  in  poisoning  as  the  cause  of  the  pesti- 
lence ;  and  his  indefatigable  deputy,  who  had  volunteered 
to  avenge  his  cause  upon  the  wretched  Sicilians,  passed 
rapidly  from  city  to  city,  holding  levees  for  the  adherents 
of  the  crown,  giving  balls  to  the  loyal  ladies,  confiscating 
the  estates  of  the  refugees,  and  shooting,  after  the  merest 
mockery  of  a  trial,  all  recognized  ring-leaders  of  rebellion 
and  every  one  who  could,  under  any  pretence,  be  suspect- 
ed of  being  a  liberal. 

One  poor  youth  escaped  death  only  by  flight  who  had 
been  seen  to  applaud  some  patriotic  sentiment  rather  ve- 
hemently in  the  theatre  ;  and  the  name  of  one  of  the  best 


THE    CHOLERA    IN    SICILY.  29 

educated  and  finest  young  men  of  the  island  was  placed 
on  the  bloody  list  merely  on  the  dying  testimony  of  one 
of  the  victims,  wrung  from  him  by  the  hope  of  a  reprieve. 
After  the  lapse  of  a  few  weeks,  public  order  was  re-es- 
tablished. The  pestilence  ceased.  Del  Carretto  returned 
to  Naples.  But  it  will  be  long  before  the  melancholy 
traces  of  these  calamities  will  pass  away  from  the  island, 
or  the  solitary  places  be  filled.  The  King  has  since  vis- 
ited his  subjects,  and  a  reconciliation  has  been  effected. 
Neither  have  their  sufferings  been  wholly  without  political 
benefit  to  the  Sicilians.  Many  privileges  have  been  ac- 
ceded to  the  different  communities.  New  commercial 
facilities  have  been  afforded,  onerous  regulations  abo- 
lished, and  the  quarantine  system  revised.  Nor  can  the 
conduct  of  a  part  of  the  inhabitants  have  failed  so  as  to 
impress  the  government  as  shall  henceforth  command  for 
them  more  respect,  and  cause  their  just  rights  to  be  mora 
readily  recognized.*  One  scene  of  which  I  was  a  witness, 
was  alone  calculated  to  produce  no  transient  impression. 

As  the  news  of  the  afflicting  events  which  were  deso- 
lating the  other  parts  of  Sicily,  reached  Messina,  it  threw 
the  whole  city  into  mourning.  The  arrival  of  the  Palermo 
post  was  expected  with  an  eager  and  painful  interest  visi- 
bly depicted  upon  the  face  of  almost  every  passer;  and  at 
all  hours  of  the  day,  the  Marina  was  studded  with  groups 
whose  anxious  countenances  indicated  the  one  absorb- 
ing subject  they  were  discussing.  But  on  one  occasion, 
the  spectacle  presented  from  the   balconies,  was  by  no 

♦  Later  accounts  however  indicate  but  too  plainly  a  renewal  of 
the  most  despotic  and  baneful  policy. 

3* 


80  THE    CHOLERA    IN    SICILY. 

means  so  quiet.  A  crowd  had  collected  around  the 
Health  Offire,  which  rises  directly  from  the  water's  edge, 
and  were  clamoring  to  the  deputies  sitting  within,  to  send 
instantly  away  a  brig  of  war  which  had  that  moment  en- 
tered the  port  from  Naples,  where  the  cholera  was  then 
raging,  having  been  sent  by  the  King,  with  clothing  for 
the  troops,  then  quartered  at  Messina.  The  circle  imme- 
diately around  the  building  consisted  of  the  lower  orders 
of  the  Messinese — porters,  boatmen  and  mechanics — 
their  disordered  vestments,  shaggy  beards  and  fierce  ex- 
pressions, giving  them  not  a  little  of  a  genuine  revolu- 
tionary aspect.  Behind  these  foremost  actors  in  the 
scene,  stood  a  multitude  of  the  better  class,  regarding  the 
movements  of  the  rabble  with  simple  curiosity  or  secret 
approbation.  The  members  of  the  Board  of  Health  thus 
found  themselves  in  an  awkward  predicament.  On  the 
one  hand,  they  feared  to  disobey  the  royal  order  to  re- 
ceive the  clothing,  and  on  the  other  they  were  threatened 
with  the  vengeance  of  an  exasperated  populace.  Their 
reply,  however,  was  indecisive  ;  and  so  deep  and  vindic- 
tive a  murmur  followed  its  annunciation,  that  the  fright- 
ened deputies  deemed  it  best  to  effect  their  escape.  With 
this  view,  they  sprang  from  the  back  door  and  crowded 
into  the  boats  which  were  drawn  up  on  the  beach,  urging 
their  owners  to  push  off,  and  promising  their  adversaries 
in  the  rear  that  the  obnoxious  vessel  should  be  forthwith 
sent  away.  It  was  ludicrous  to  see  with  what  a  compro- 
mise of  dignity  their  escape  was  effected.  Many  of  these 
worthies  rushed  into  the  water  above  their  middle,  in  order 
to  gain  the  boats.     Their  assurance  of  immediately  com- 


THE    CHOLERA.    IN    SICILY.  31 

plying  with  the  popular  desire,  was  received  with  a  shout 
of  triumph,  and  the  crowd  eagerly  watched  their  progress 
as  they  glided  on  towards  the  quarantine  harbor.  When 
about  midway,  however,  they  suddenly  veered  and  moved 
rapidly  towards  the  citadel,  within  vrhose  protecting  walls 
they  were  soon  safely  ensconced.  The  rage  of  the  pec- 
pie  when  they  found  themselves  thus  deceived,  was  be- 
yond measure.  They  instantly  attacked  the  deserted 
Health  Office  with  clubs,  stones  and  every  obtainable  mis- 
sile, and  in  a  few  moments  it  presented  a  ruinous  and 
shattered  appearance.  Scores  of  boys,  half-clad  urchins, 
sprang  through  the  windows  like  bees  from  a  hive,  bearing 
the  records,  account-books  and  files  of  papers  connected 
with  the  establishment,  which  they  deliberately  tore  into 
fragments,  scattered  to  the  winds  or  threw  into  the  sea, 
which  was  soon  whitened  for  yards  around  wiih  the  float- 
ing masses.  In  the  midst  of  the  destruction,  it  was  curi- 
ous to  observe  the  behavior  of  the  leaders  of  the  tumult. 
One  of  them  carefully  conveyed  away  several  of  the  most 
valuable  articles,  and  deposited  them  in  the  hands  of  a 
highly  respectable  and  popular  citizen  among  the ,  by- 
standers. Another  took  a  silver  lamp  and  threw  it  far 
out  into  the  water,  that  it  might  be  evident  that  their  object 
was  not  to  pilfer.  One  climbed  to  the  front  of  the  build- 
ing, and  having  calmly  cut  to  pieces  the  inscribed  marble 
tablet,  touched  several  times  the  king's  arms  which  were 
inscribed  above  and  then  kissed  his  hand,  amid  the  re- 
spofisive  shouts  of  the  multitude  ;  by  this  salutation  im- 
plying that  they  recognised  the  allegiance  due  to  their 
sovereign,  and  aimed  vengeance  only  at  the   deputies. 


32  THE    CHOLERA    IN    SICILY. 

He  then  posted  a  small  engraving  of  the  Madonna  in  the 
place  of  the  marble  slab,  thereby  indicating  that  for  the 
preservation  of  the  public  health,  they  trusted  wholly  to 
Heaven.  Meanwhile,  another  leading  spirit  had  raised 
the  royal  banner  at  half-mast,  at  the  opposite  corner,  to 
suggest  that  the  king  mourned  over  the  mal-administra- 
tion  of  his  officers.  At  length  the  municipal  authorities 
fearing  the  consequences  of  further  opposition  to  the  public 
will,  ordered  the  brig  to  depart,  and  presently  she  stood 
gallantly  out  of  the  harbor  before  a  strong  breeze.  The 
exultation  of  the  populace  at  the  sight  of  this  movement 
was  without  bounds.  They  abandoned  the  work  of  de- 
struction upon  which  but  a  moment  previous  they  had 
been  so  sagely  intent,  and  ran  along  the  shore  beside  the 
ship,  brandishing  their  sticks  and  shouting/i^ore  /  (away  !) 
until  she  had  doubled  the  adjacent  cape  and  disappeared. 
It  was  a  scene  of  no  ordinary  excitement ;  the  steady  and 
swift  course  of  the  armed  vessel  silently  gliding  from  the 
bay  under  a  cloud  of  canvass,  and  the  eager  crowd  with 
victory  gleaming  from  their  eyes,  rushing  on  to  hail  her 
exit.     Never  was  a  popular  triumph  more  complete. 


THE    CAPUCHIN   OF   PISA. 


*'  Grey  was  liis  hair,  but  not  with  age." 

Anon. 


For  one  inclined  to  a  studious  life,  there  is  no  more 
desirable  residence,  in  Italy,  than  Pisa.  The  calls  of  plea- 
sure and  society  which  so  constantly  assail  the  student 
in  the  capital  cities,  are  far  less  numerous  and  exciting 
here.  Boasting  the  oldest  university  in  Tuscany,  Pisa, 
with  the  downfall  of  her  commercial  importance,  lost  not 
the  attractiveness  which  belongs  to  an  ancient  seat  of 
learning.  The  reputation  for  military  prowess,  gained 
by  her  brave  citizens  in  the  crusades,  and  the  maritime 
consequence  she  enjoyed  in  the  primitive  era,  when  small 
vessels  only  were  in  use,  are  distinctions  which  have 
long  since  ceased  to  exist.  She  sends  forth  no  fleets  of 
galleys,  as  of  old,  armed  with  bold  mariners  panting  to 
destroy  the  Saracenic  pirates.  The  Islands  in  the  Medi. 
terranean,  once  tributary  to  her  arms,  now  acknowledge 
another  master.  Bloody  feuds  no  longer  divide  her  citi- 
zens ;  Dor  has  she  ventured  to  dispute  the  empire  of  the 


34 


THE    CAPUCHIN    OP    PISA. 


seas  since  the  close  of  the  twelfth  century,  when  she  suf- 
fered a  memorable  defeat  in  a  naval  combat  with  the  Ge- 
noese, under  Admiral  Doria.  So  great  was  the  number 
of  her  distinguished  people  who,  in  this  and  previous  bat- 
tles, fell  into  the  power  of  her  formidable  rival,  that  it  was 
a  common  saying  in  that  age,  that,  *  whoever  whould  see 
Pisa,  must  go  to  Genoa.' 

The  edifices  upon  the  right  bank  of  the  Arno,  many  of 
them  rich  in  architectural  decorations,  are  built  in  the  form 
of  a  sweeping  curve  admirably  exposed  to  the  sun.  In 
these  buildings  are  the  best  winter  lodgings  ;  and  the 
broad  street  forms  a  delightful  promenade.  Here  the  in- 
valids stroll  at  noon  or  evening,  completely  sheltered 
from  the  wind  ;  while  about  the  adjacent  bookstores  the 
literati  lounge  in  the  sun,  to  con  a  new  publication,  or 
discuss  some  mooted  point  in  science  or  belles-lettres. 
Sometimes  on  an  autumn  evening,  when  nature  is  in  her 
balmiest  mood,  and  the  walk  filled  with  students,  the  seve- 
ral bridges  reflected  in  the  river,  and  the  are  JMaj-m  steal- 
ing on  the  breeze,  the  scene  is  delightfully  significant  of 
calm  enjoyment.  On  a  pleasant  afternoon,  as  I  noted 
this  picture  from  beneath  an  awning  which  surmounted 
the  door  of  a  caffe,  my  eyes  encountered  those  of  a  Capu- 
chin friar,  who  was  sitting  on  the  parapet  opposite,  occa- 
sionally enjoying  the  same  pastime,  but  more  frequently 
engaged  in  turning  over  the  leaves  of  an  old  folio.  The 
members  of  this  fraternity,  usually  seen  in  Italy,  are  very 
unprepossessing  in  their  appearance.  Their  brown  robes 
generally  envelope  a  portly  person,  and  the  rough  hood 
falls  back  from  a  face  whose  coarse  features  bedaubed 


THE    CAPUCHIN    OF    PISA.  35 

with  yellow  snuff,  indicate  mental  obtuseness  far  more 
than  sanctity.  This  Capuchin,  however,  had  an  eye 
which,  at  the  first  glance,  seemed  beaming  with  intelli- 
gence; but,  upon  inspection,  betrayed  an  unsettled  ex- 
pression, such  as  might  pertain  to  an  apprehensive  or 
disordered  mind.  But  the  most  striking  peculiarity  in  the 
monk's  appearance,  as  he  sat  with  his  cowl  thrown  back 
to  enjoy  the  evening  air,  was  the  remarkable  contrast  be- 
tween a  face  decidedly  youthful,  and  hair  that  exhibited 
the  grey  of  sixty  winters..  An  effect  was  thus  produced 
similar  to  that  observed  on  the  stage,  when  a  juvenile  per- 
former is  invested  with  one  of  the  heavy  powdered  wigs 
of  the  last  century.  It  was  as  if  youth  and  age  were 
miraculously  conjoined  in  one  person.  The  adolescent 
play  of  the  mouth,  the  freshness  of  the  complexion,  and 
the  careless  air,  bespoke  early  manhood,  and  were  in 
startling  contradiction  to  the  thick  locks  blanched  almost 
to  snowy  whiteness.  The  friar  noticed  my  gaze  of  curi- 
osity, and  advancing  towards  me  with  a  good-natured 
courtesy,  proffered  the  curious  volume  for  my  inspection. 
It  was  truly  a  feast  for  a  connoisseur  in  black-letter 
and  primitive  engravings — one  of  those  parchment-bound 
church  chronicles  which  are  sometimes  met  with  in  Italy, 
filled  with  the  most  grotesque  representations  of  saints 
and  devils.  The  Capuchin  it  appeared,  was  an  amateur 
in  such  lore  ;  and  this  his  last  prize,  had  just  been  bought 
of  a  broker  in  similar  matters,  who  had  long  watched  for 
him  on  the  promenade  as  a  sure  purchaser^  of  the  worm- 
eaten  relic.  Most  patiently  did  he  initiate  me  into  the 
mysteries  of  the  volume,  apparently  delighted  to  find  so 


36  THE  CAPUCHIN    OF    PISA. 

atteutive  an  auditor.  I  observed  that  it  was  as  an  antiquity, 
and  especially  on  account  of  the  pictures,  that  he  prized 
the  book  ;  and  my  wonder  was  increased  by  the  general 
knowledge  and  worldly  wisdom  displayed  by  this  member 
of  a  brotherhood  noted  for  their  ignorance.  Perhaps  he 
interpreted  my  curiosity  aright,  for  when  we  had  turned 
over  the  last  leaf,  he  proposed  an  adjournment  to  his  con- 
vent,  that  I  might  view  his  collection  of  ancient  tomes, 
an  invitation  I  was  not  slow  to  accept.  His  cell  was  at 
the  corner  of  the  monastery,  and  commanded  a  fine  view 
of  the  surrounding  country  on  the  one  side,  and  of  the 
river  and  city  on  the  other.  It  was  neatly  furnished,  and 
not  without  ornament.  He  pointed  out  several  book- 
jshelves,  and  evidently  enjoyed  the  surprise  with  which  I 
read  the  titles  of  works  usually  found  in  the  libraries 
of  men  of  taste,  but  seldom  known  in  the  dormitory  of  the 
priest.  At  length,  he  raised  them  en  masse,  and  what  I 
had  deemed  a  little  library,  proved  but  an  ingenious  imita- 
tion. Beneath  the  painted  boards  was  disclosed  the  veri- 
table collection  of  the  poor  Capuchin — a  few  vellum, 
bound  volumes,  chiefly  refering  to  the  theology  of  his 
sect.  I  was  not  a  little  interested  in  the  quiet  humor  thus 
displayed  by  this  singular  brother  of  a  gloomy  fraternity. 
His  cheerful  eye  was  at  variance  with  the  dark,  rough 
robe,  and  coarse  rope  which  bound  him.  His  little  room 
was  furnished  with  a  view  to  the  enjoyment  oi  the  occu- 
pant ;  and,  judging  by  the  fine  old  Malaga  with  which  he 
entertained  me,  not  without  the  means  of  indulgence.  I 
could  not  but  fancy  the  feelings  which  must  sometimes 
visit  him  as  he  gazed  from  his  secluded  nook  upon  the 


THE    CAPUCHIN    OF    PISA.  37 

world  he  had  renounced.  When,  at  dawn,  he  has  seen 
one  of  the  many  equipiiges  start  from  the  adjacent  square, 
bearing  hearts  intent  upon  re-union  with  the  loved  in  the 
place  of  its  destination,  or  youthful  spirits  eager  for  the 
excitement  and  adventure  of  a  distant  tour,  has  he  not 
sighed  for  a  share  in  the  blessed  ministry  of  the  affociions, 
or  panted  to  throw  himself  into  a  more  expanded  sphere 
of  experience?  or,  if  sincerely  deeming  all  earthly  friend- 
^hip  vain,  and  all  knowledge  of  the  world  unholy,  in  mu- 
sing at  sunset  over  the  richness,  the  silent  and  varying 
beauty  of  that  lovely  landscape,  has  he  not  momently 
caught  the  inspiration  of  nature's  freedom,  and  felt  that 
the  breezes  of  heaven  are  not  less  chainless,  by  Beaven's 
ordination,  than  the  spirit  within  him?  The  Capuchin 
understood  and  interrupted  my  reverie. 

*«  Signer,"  said  he,  "  I  perceive  you  are  surprised  at 
the  obvious  want  of  harmony  between  my  character  and 
my  destiny.  You  think  the  friar's  garb  does  not  altogeth- 
er become  me,  and  wonder  how  it  is  that  s  >  youthful  a 
brow  should  be  shaded  by  hoary  locks.  I  will  endeavor 
to  explain  the  apparent  anomaly,  if  you  are  disposed  to 
listen  to  a  brief  recital.  A  Corsican  by  birth,  I  reached 
the  age  of  sixteen  without  clearly  understanding  the  word — 
responsibility.  My  life  had  flown  on  beneath  the  paternal 
roof,  unmarked  by  vicissitude,  unembittered  by  sorrow. 
My  education  was  intended  to  prepare  me  for  a  naval  life>^ 
and,  as  far  as  theoretical  knowledge  is  important,  perhaps 
it  was  not  valueless.  I  had  acquired,  too,  some  dexterity 
in  the  management  of  such  small  craft  as  ply  about  the 
Mediterranean  coast.     But  no  duty  had  ever  been  im- 

4 


38  THE    CAPUCHIN    OF    PISA. 

posed  upon  me,  which  my  own  inclination  had  not  sug- 
gested ;    and  if  at  times,  I   was   deep   in   mathematical 
studies,  or  intent  upon  displaying  my  nautical  skill  when 
a  storm  had  lashed  our  bay  into  a  foam,  it  was  my  native 
love  of  excitement  rather  than  any  settled  principle  of  ac- 
tion, which  prompted  my  exertions.     I  was  regarded  as  a 
spoiled  child,  and  the  rebukes  to  which  I  was,  in  conse- 
quence, subjected,  aroused  my  indignation   more  deeply 
than  corporeal  punishment  oflen  does  that  of  less  ardent 
beings.     On  one  occasion,  when  smarting  inwardly  from 
a  taunting  reproach  my  father  had  bestowed,  I  suddenly 
resolved  to  flee,  if  it  were  only  to  prove  that  I  could  de- 
pend upon  myself,  and  be  indeed  a  man.     Such  resolu- 
tions doubtless  abound  at  that  age,  and  are  not  unfre- 
quently  acted  upon.     With  a  few  louis-d'ors  in  my  purse, 
I  embarked  for  Marseilles,  and  after  a  few  weeks'  stay  in 
that  city,  found  myself  without  money  or  friends,  and  pre- 
vented by  pride  from  revealing  myself  or  my  situation  to 
any  one.     Want,  however,  was  fast  undermining  my  re- 
solution ;  and  one  bright  morning  I  walked  towards  the 
quay,  hoping  to  discover  some  Corsican  captain  who  would 
convey  me  home.     As  I  stood   near  one  of  the  docks, 
glancing  over  the  shipping,  I  observed  a  man  whose  vest. 
ments  were  those  of  a  dandy  mariner,  rapidly  pacing  the 
wharf.     His  keen  gaze  soon  fell  upon  my  person,  and,  at 
the  next  turn  in  his  promenade,  he  abruptly  clapped  me 
on  the  shoulder,  and,  pointing  to  a  neat  brig  with  Sardin- 
ian colors  in  the  offing,  asked  my  opinion  of  her  build 
and  appearance.     As  I  had  been  an  observer  of  vessels 
ftom  early  boyhood,  I  answered  him  with  frankness,  intro- 


THE    CAPUCHIN    OF    PISA.  39 

ducing  some  technical  phrases,  which  seemed  to  convince 
him  that  I  was  no  novice  in  such  matters.  When  I  had 
concluded ;  ^  my  lad,'  said  he,  '  I  am  the  supercargo  of  that 
craft.  Ask  no  questions,  navigate  her  to  Corsica, 
and  (his  is  your's,'  shaking  a  purse  before  my  eyes. 
Without  hesitation  I  accepted  the  proposal.  Mindful  of 
my  immediate  necessities,  and  elated  at  the  idea  of  en- 
tering our  harbor  the  recognised  commander  of  so  fine  a 
vessel,  I  banished  all  doubts  of  my  capacity,  trusted  to  for- 
tune to  carry  me  safely  through  the  enterprise,  and  spring- 
ing with  alacrity  after  the  supercargo,  into  a  boat,  soou 
stood  with  all  the  pride  of  youth  mantling  in  my  cheek, 
upon  the  quarter  deck  of  the  Maria  Teresa.  Several 
Jews  were  clustered  about  the  mainmast,  awaiting  our 
arrival  to  secure  their  passage.  They  offered  to  make 
up  what  was  deficient  in  the  cargo,  by  shipping  several 
cases  of  liqueurs,  and  agreeing  to  pay  liberally,  the  bar- 
gain was  soon  closed.  It  was  arranged  that  we  should 
sail  at  sunset ;  and  leaving  the  supercargo  at  his  desk  in 
the  cabin,  I  hastened  on  shore  to  atone  for  my  recent  ab- 
stinence. The  commencement  of  our  voyage  was  highly 
prosperous.  After  several  days,  having  been  blest  with 
clear  weather,  and  favorable,  though  light  breezes,  I  be- 
gan  to  congratulate  myself  upon  my  success,  when,  one 
afternoon,  there  appeared  along  the  horizon,  indubitable 
tokens  of  a  coming  storm.  I  knew  not  precisely  where 
we  were,  though  I  hal  concealed  my  doubts  on  the  subject ; 
and  as  night  approached,  a  strange  feeling  of  melancholy 
came  over  me.  I  leaned  over  the  bulwarks,  watching  the 
ominous  masses  of  clouds,  and  listening  to  the  heavy  and 


40  THE    CAPUCHIN    OF    PISA. 

solemn  swell  of  the  sea.  All  at  once,  a  sense  of  the  re- 
sponsibility I  was  under,  began  to  oppress  me.  Misgiv- 
ings crowded  upon  my  hitherto  resolute  mind ;  and,  at 
length,  a  presentiment  of  evil  took  entire  possession  of 
my  fancy.  Inexperienced,  and  prevented  by  false  pride 
from  exposing  my  fears,  I  bitterly  repented  of  the  task  I 
had  undertaken.  I  felt,  however,  that  it  was  now  too  late 
to  retreat,  and  observing  an  old  sailor  casting  an  eye  of 
curiosity  upon  my  anxious  countenance,  I  suddenly  de- 
termined at  all  hazards,  to  maintain  the  character  1  had  as- 
sumed. The  wind  increasing,  before'dark  every  thing  was 
snug  on  board,  and  at  midnight  it  blew  a  tempest.  The 
hrig,  heavily  laden  as  she  was,  ploughed  wearily  through 
the  wa.ves,^  every  timber  creaking  as  she  flew  before  the 
wind.  Sometimes  it  seemed  impossible  she  should  rise 
after  a  plunge  so  convulsive,  and  a  pause  so  awful.  My 
heart  beat  with  agonizing  suspense,  till  I  felt  the  quivering 
fabric  slowly  lifted  again  on  the  billow,  to  dive  once  more 
madly  on  her  way.  The  mast  fell  with  an  awful  crash, 
and^  for  a  second,  the  crew  stood  astounded,  as  if  the  ves- 
sel herself  had  burst  asunder  ;  but,  when  the  extent  of  the 
mischief  was  discovered,  they  worked  on  assiduously  as 
before.  We  were  scudding  under  a  reefed  jib,  and  I 
stood  braced  sigainst  the  companion-way,  awaiting,  with 
mingled  feelings  of  awe,  perplexity,  and  hope,  the  crisis 
of  the  storm.  Encouraged  by  the  firm  bearing  of  our 
gallant  bark,  I  began  to  think  all  would  eventuate  happily, 
when  a  flash  of  lightning  revealed  to  me  the  old  mariner 
on  his  knees  by  the  forecastle,  the  other  sailors  standing 
in  terror  and  dismay  about  him,  and  the  Jews  huddled  to-. 


THE    CAPUCHIN    OF    PISA.  41 

gether  apart,  regarding  them  with  looks  of  fear,  which 
even  the  raging  elements  seemed  not  to  divert.  At  the 
same  moment  a  strong  smell  of  sulphur  filled  the  atmos- 
phere. Conceiving  a  thunderbolt  had  struck  the  brig, 
and  scarce  knowing  what  I  did,  I  rushed  forward,  and 
seizing  the  foremost  Jew  with  a  savage  grasp,  'base  Is- 
raelite !'  cried  I,  '  are  you  the  Jonah  ]'  Trembling,  he 
sunk  upon  his  knees,  and  implored  me  for  the  love  of 
Abraham,  to  spare  his  life,  confessing  they  had  stowed 
a  quantity  of  aqua  fortis  in  the  hold.  The  mystery  was 
explained.  The  jars  of  sulphuric  acid  had  broken  in  the 
heavings  of  the  vessel,  and  their  contents  mingling 
with  the  silks  and  woollen  stuffs,  produced  combustion. 
The  sailors  already  abandoned  themselves  to  despair.  In 
vain  I  ordered,  supplicated  and  reviled.  They  lay  in  su- 
pine misery,  calling  upon  the  Virgin,  and  giving  them- 
selves up  as  lost.  O  the  excitement  of  that  hour !  Years 
appeared  concentrated  in  moments.  I  seemed  endowed 
with  an  almost  sup'ernatural  energy,  and  firmly  resolved 
to  stretch  every  nerve  and  sinew  for  preservation.  With 
no  assistance  but  that  of  the  cabin  boy,  who  alone  listened 
to  my  orders,  I  threw  off  the  hatches.  A  tremendous 
cloud  of  steam  rolled  up  in  thick  volumes.  Half  suffo- 
cated, we  proceeded  to  throw  boxes  and  bales  into  the  sea ; 
saturated  with  the  acid,  they  fumed  and  hissed  as  they 
struck  the  water.  Our  hands  and  clothes  were  soon  ter- 
ribly scorched;  yet  with  breathless  haste  we  t  iled  on, 
while  the  lightning  flashed  with  two-fold  vividness,  and 
the  gale  raged  with  unabated  fury.  The  sailors  finally 
came  to  our  aid ;   and  after  many  hours  of  incessant  ex- 

4* 


42  THE    CAPUCHIN    OF    TISA. 

crtion,  the  traces  of  fire  were  removed,  and  we  sunk  ex- 
hausted on  the  deck.  The  darkness  was  intense,  and  as 
we  lay,  still  tossed  by  the  tempest,  a  new  and  horrible 
fear  entered  our  minds.  We  apprehended  that  we  were 
drifting  towards  the  Barbary  coast,  and  should  be  thrown 
on  shore  only  to  be  cruelly  murdered.  The  horrors  of 
such  a  fate  we  could  too  easily  imagine,  and  with  tortu- 
ring anxiety,  awaited  the  dawn.  It  was  then  that  I  vowed, 
if  my  life  was  spared,  to  dedicate  it  to  St.  Francis.  The 
horrible  scene  of  that  night  had  revolutionized  my  nature. 
The  danger  passed  lilie  a  hot  iron  over  my  soul.  My 
previous  life  had  been  a  pastime.  This  first  adventure  was 
replete  with  the  terrible,  and  its  awful  excitement  penetra- 
ted my  heart.  An  age  seemed  to  exhaust  itself  in  every 
passing  moment  of  our  painful  vigil.  We  gazed  in  silent 
suspense  towards  the  east.  There  an  ebon  mass  of  va- 
por hung,  like  a  wall  of  black  marble.  At  length,  a  short, 
deep,  crimson  gush,  glowed  through  its  edge.  Slowly  the 
sun  arose,  and  displayed  to  our  astonished  and  gladdened 
eyes  the  farthest  point  of  Sardinia.  How  we  entered 
the  harbor  unpiloted,  was  a  mystery  to  us  as  well  as  the 
hospitable  inhabitants.  From  the  vessel  we  hurried  to 
the  church,  to  render  thanks  to  the  Virgin  for  our  deliver- 
ance. I  threw  my  cap  upon  the  pavement,  and  knelt  at 
the  first  shrine.  My  companions  uttered  an  exclamation 
of  surprise.  The  intense  care  and  apprehension  of  that 
night  of  terrors,  had  sprinkled  the  snow  of  age  am.id  my 
locks  of  jet." 


SAN   MARINO. 


"  With  light  heart  the  poor  fisher  moors  his  boat, 
And  watches  from  the  shore  the  lofty  ship 
Stranded  amid  the  storm." 

Wallenstein^ 

'  The  ancient  Via  Emilia  is  still  designated  by  an  ex- 
cellent road  which  crosses  Romagna  in  the  direction  of 
the  Adriatic.  It  traverses  an  extensive  tract  of  fertile 
land,  chiefly  laid  oat  in  vineyards.  As  we  passed  through 
this  rich  and  level  country,  the  occasional  appearance  of 
a  team  drawn  by  a  pair  of  beautiful  grey  oxen  and  load- 
ed with  a  reeking  butt  of  new  wine,  proclaimed  that  it 
was  the  season  of  vintage.  But  autumn  was  not  less  pleas- 
ingly indicated,  by  the  clusters  of  purple  grapes  suspended 
from  cane-poles  at  almost  every  cottage-window,  and  by 
the  yellow  and  crimson  leaves  of  the  vines,  that  waved 
gorgeously  in  the  sun  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  like 
garlands  with  which  departing  summer  had  decorated  the 
fields  in  commemoration  of  the  rich  harvest  she  had 
yielded.  The  single  companion  who  shared  with  me  the 
open  carrriage  so   well  adapted  for  such  a  jaunt,  was  a 


44  SAN    MARINO. 

large  landed  proprietor  in  the  neighboring  district,  and, 
being  quite  familiar  with  every  nook  and  feature  of  the 
surrounding  country,  he  endeavored  to  amuse  me  by 
pointing  out  all  objects  of  interest  with  which  we  came 
in  view.  Here  was  a  little  chapel  under  whose  walls  a 
notorious  thief  concealed  an  imme«se  treasure,  and  when 
the  term  of  his  imprisonment  had  expired,  returned  and 
disinterred  it.  There  was  the  Devil's  bridge,  so  called 
because  it  is  said  to  have  been  built  in  a  single  night. 
This  veteran  beggar,  distinguished  from  the  mendicant 
group  of  the  village  by  the  erect  air  of  his  emaciated 
figure,  was  a  soldier  under  Napoleon,  and  has  now  roam- 
ed back  to  his  native  town,  to  live  on  the  casual  alms  of 
the  passing  traveller  ;  while  that  stout  and  welLclad  man 
who  succeeded,  with  the  loss  of  a  thumb,  in  arresting  a 
formidable  bandit,  is  living  snugly  on  a  pension.  The 
shallow  stream  over  which  we  are  now  passing  is  believed 
to  be  the  Rubicon.  Yon  gay  contadina  with  large  silver 
ear. rings,  whose  laugh  we  hear  from  the  chaise  behind,  is 
a  bride  on  her  way  from  church ;  and  that  white  and 
flower-decked  crib  which  a  peasant  is  carrying  into  his 
cottage,  is  the  bier  of  a  child.  It  was  only  at  long  inter- 
vals  that  the  agreeable  though  monotonous  scenery  was 
varied  to  the  view,  and  within  the  precincts  of  the  towns 
scarcely  a  single  pleasing  object  could  the  eye  detect,  to 
counteract  the  too  obvious  evidences  of  human  misery. 
In  all  the  Papal  villages,  indeed,  the  same  scene  is  pre- 
sented. At  every  gate  the  traveller  is  dunned  for  his 
passport  by  an  Austrian  guard,  whose  mustaches  and  cold 
northern  visage  are  as  out  of  place  in  so  sunny  a  region, 


SAN   MARINO.  45 

as  would  be  an  orange-grove  amid  the  sands  of  Cape 
Cod,  or  annoyed  by  the  wretched  inheritor  of  one  of 
the  noblest  of  ancient  titles — a  Roman  soldier,  clad  in  a 
loose,  brown,  shaggy  coat,  who  after  keeping  him  an  hour 
to  spell  out  credentials  which  have  been  read  a  score  of 
times  since  he  entered  the  territory,  has  the  effrontery  to 
ask  for  a  few  biocchi  to  drink  his  health  at  the  nearest 
wine-shop.  When,  at  length,  one  is  allowed  to  enter  and 
hurry  through  the  dark,  muddy  streets,  no  sign  of  enter- 
prize  meets  the  gaze,  but  a  barber's  basin  dangling  from 
some  doorway,  a  crowd  collected  around  a  dealer  in  vege- 
tables, or,  if  it  be  a  fesia,  a  company  of  strolling  circus- 
riders,  decked  out  in  tawdry  finery,  cantering  round  to 
collect  an  audience  for  the  evening.  No  activity  is 
manifested,  except  by  the  vetturini  who  run  after  the  car- 
riage, vociferating  for  employment,  and  the  paupers  who 
collect  in  a  dense  crowd  to  impede  its  progress.  In  the 
midst  of  such  tokens  of  degradation,  planted  in  the  centre 
the  square,  rises  a  statue  of  some  pope  or  archbishop  in 
bronze  or  marble,  with  tall  mitre  and  outstretched  arm  ; 
and,  as  if  to  demonstrate  the  imbecility  of  the  weakest 
and  most  oppressive  of  Italian  governments,  around  the 
very  pedestal  are  grouped  more  improvidents  than  would 
illl  a  hospital,  and  idle,  reckless  characters  enough  to  cor- 
rupt an  entire  community.  There  is  something  peculiar- 
ly provoking  in  the  appearance  of  these  ugly,  graceless 
statues,  which  are  so  ostentatiously  stuck  up  in  every- 
town  throughout  the  Pontifical  states — the  emblem  of  a 
ruinous  and  draining  system,  which  has  reduced  these 
liaturally  fertile  localities  to  their  present  wretchedness^ 


46 


SAN    MARINO. 


towering,  as  it  were,  above  the  misery  it  has  occasioned. 
The  inclined  head,  and  arm  extended  as  if  in  the  act  of 
blessing,  is  a  benignant,  humble  posture,  in  ridiculous 
contrast  to  the  surly  soldiery  and  countless  mendicants, 
who  seem  to  constitute  the  legitimate  subjects  of  Papal 
favor.  Rimini  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  of  these  ap- 
pendages to  the  Roman  states,  and  boasts  of  a  few  an- 
tiquities, with  which  the  traveller  can  beguile  an  hour, 
whilesome  of  the  excellent  fish  from  the  adjacent  bay,  are 
preparing  for  his  supper.  Upon  the  principal  piazza,  a 
large  palace,  which  presents  nothing  without  but  a  broad 
front  of  mutilated  brick-work,  and  within  is  newly  fitted 
up  in  modern  style,  is  pointed  out  as  the  former  dwelling 
of  Francesca  di  Rimini,  whose  singularly  melancholy  story 
constitutes  the  most  beautiful  episode  of  Dante's  Inferno, 
has  been  dramatized  by  Silvio  Pellico,  and  forms  the  sub- 
ject of  one  of  Leigh  Hunt's  most  graphic  poems.  If  the 
visitor  endeavors  to  recall  to  his  mind  the  knightly  splen- 
dor which,  at  that  epoch,  the  scene  before  him  presented, 
and  a  strain  of  martial  music  swell  upon  the  air  as  if  to 
aid  his  fancy,  the  illusion  is  quickly  dispelled  when,  in- 
stead of  a  company  of  gallant  courtiers,  an  Austrian  re- 
giment in  plain  uniform  winds  in  view,  marching  from 
the  parade  ground  to  their  quarters.  On  a  fine  October 
morning,  I  resolved  to  escape  awhile  from  scenes  thus 
darkened  by  despotism,  and  make  an  excursion  to  a  spot 
still  hallowed  by  the  presence  of  freedom.  The  approach 
to  San  Marino  is  through  a  pleasant  and  fertile  country, 
and  a  small  bridge  indicatps  the  line  which  divides  the 
republican    territory  from   Rimini.     After  crossing  this 


SAN    MARINO.  "47 

boundary,  the  road  becomes  more  hilly,  and  the  aspect  of 
the  surrounding  fields  more  variegated,  displaying  nu- 
merous small  oaks  and  elms,  clumps  of  olive  trees,  and 
patches  of  yellow  cane.  In  many  spots,  well-clad  and 
hardy. looking  women  were  breaking  the  glebes  in  the 
newly-ploughed  land,  to  prepare  it  for  the  reception  of 
grain  or  vines.  Nothing  can  be  more  picturesque  than 
the  site  of  the  town.  It  is  built  upon  the  summit  of  a 
hill  which  presents  an  almost  perpendicular  cliff  to  the  ap- 
proaching traveller,  the  rocky  face  of^vhich  is  relieved  by 
a  grove  of  chesnuts  whose  autumn-tinted  leaves  waved  in 
umbrageous  masses  among  the  grey  stones.  As  we 
draw  near,  it  struck  me  as  a  most  appropriate  eyry  for  the 
*'  mountain  nymph,  sweet  liberty."  The  very  air  seem- 
ed instinct  with  freedom,  and  every  step  along  the  wind- 
ing road  to  bring  us  to  a  region  of  more  elevated  and 
bracing  influences.  As  we  thus  approach,  let  us  trace 
the  history  of  a  spot  which,  amid  the  countless  vicissi- 
tudes  that  involved  in  ruin  every  other  community  in 
Italy,  preserved  through  so  many  centuries,  the  name  and 
privileges  of  a  republic. 

The  remarkable  mountain  upon  which  the  town  of  San 
Marino  is  built,  was  anciently  called  Titano,  perhaps  in 
reference  to  certain  gigantic  bones  found  buried  there, 
but  more  probably  in  allusion  to  its  isolated  position 
as  if  thrown  on  the  plain  by  one  the  fabulous  giants 
of  antiquity.  It  retained  this  primitive  appellation  until 
the  ninth  century.  On  one  side,  it  presents  a  beautiful 
line  of  hills  rising  in  picturesque  gradation,  and  on  the 
other,  a  dissevered  cliff  surmounted  by  an  abrupt  wall  of 


48  SAN    MARINO. 

rock.  The  soil  is  argillaceous  and  abounds  in  sulphur, 
petrified  shells  and  valuable  mineral  springs,  some  of 
which  enjoy  considerable  celebrity  for  their  sanative  quali. 
ties  among  the  inhabitants  of  the  surrounding  districts. 
This  spot  thus  favored  by  nature,  might  have  remained 
unknown  to  fame,  had  not  a  certain  Dalmatian  by  the 
name  of  Marino,  a  lapidary,  come  to  Rimini,  and  having 
occasion  to  visit  Titano,  where  he  discovered  abundant 
materials  for  his  art,  found  it  no  less  adapted  to  afford  a 
retreat  from  persecution  and  a  fit  retirement  for  a  tranquil, 
free,  and  religious  life.  Favored  by  the  archbishop  of 
Rimini,  he  established  himself  on  the  mountain,  and  was 
resorted  to  on  account  of  his  benevolence  and  piety,  till 
the  number  of  the  faithOil  who  became  attached  to  the 
place  induced  the  formation  of  a  settlement  and  the  erec- 
tion of  a  church.  Marino  was  believed  to  work  miracles, 
and  soon  became  renowned.  By  the  eleventh  century, 
agreeable  to  the  universal  system  of  defensive  structures 
forming  throughout  Italy,  the  republic  was  in  a  measure 
fortified  by  the  rearing  of  a  castle.  The  zeal  of  the  people 
in  effecting  this  object  is  no  small  evidence  of  their  at- 
tachment to  freedom,  which  is  not  less  signally  indicated 
by  the  remarkable  and  at  that  period  unique  inscription 
placed  upon  their  church — divo.  marino.  patrono.  et 
LiBERTATis  AUCTORi.  Duriug  the  succeeding  age,  in 
consequence  of  the  increasing  population,  the  inhabitants 
of  II  Castello,  as  the  summit  was  called,  divided,  a  por- 
tion descending  to  the  first  table  land  now  called  II  Borgo. 
About  this  time,  rose  into  power  some  of  those  .mighty 
families  who  so  long  and  fiercely  tyrannized  over  Italy. 


SAN    MARINO.  49 

From  its  very  infancy,  the  republic  was  surrounded  by 
these  despotic  rivals,  especially  the  Feltreschi,  Malatesti 
and*  Faggiuoli,  and,  although  frequently  involved  in 
the  most  trying  dilemmas,  preserved  its  love  of  liberty 
and  its  actual  independence.  In  the  twelfth  century,  when 
the  warfare  between  the  adherents  of  the  Emperor  and  the 
Pope,  convulsed  ihe  Italian  states,  although  San  Marino 
was  in  a  much  happier  condition  to  enjoy  the  benefits  for 
which  some  contended  in  the  struggle,  it  was  long  before 
the  demon  of  faction  invaded  the  peaceful  precincts  of 
the  republic.  The  archbishop  Ugolino  gave  the  spirit  of 
party,  birth.  He  was  a  violent  Ghibelline.  His  ardor  in 
the  cause  attached  many  to  him,  and  when  the  people 
subsequently  purchased  of  the  neighboring  barons  land  to 
accommodate  their  increasing  population,  he  succeeded 
by  means  of  priestly  influence,  in  becoming  a  distinct 
party  in  the  contract,  evidently  with  a  view  to  obtain 
some  feudal  authority  and  join  temporal  to  spiritual  power. 
Thesame  attempt  was  made,  on  a  similar  occasion,  by  his 
successor.  The  inhabitants  were  well  identified  with  the 
Ghibelline  party,  and  when  it  was  overthrown  in  Ro- 
magna,  afforded  a  secure  asylum  to  its  members  and  most 
illustrious  leader  in  that  region.  Toward  the  close  of 
the  century,  while  Hildebrand  reigned,  Teodorico,  the 
bishop,  proceeded  to  levy  certain  church  tributes  upon  all 
the  provinces,  including  San  Marino.  Upon  the  repub- 
licans asserting  their  independence,  an  examination  of 
their  claims  to  the  distinction  resulted  in  his  withdrawing 
the  demand,  and  acknowledging  by  a  public  decree,  the 
entire  liberty  of  the  republic.     This  is  one  of  the  earliest 

6 


50  SAN    MARINO. 

recorded  testimonies  to  the  original  liberty  of  San  Marino, 
and  is  the  more  remarkable  from  having  occurred  at  a 
period  when  the  authority  of  the  church  was  so  profound- 
edly  reverenced,  and  her  officers  so  unwearied  and  impor- 
tunate in  their  exactions.  A  like  attempt  to  impose  taxes 
was  made  soon  after  by  the  neighboring  podestas,  and 
upon  a  similar  refusal  being  returned  by  the  republic,  the 
subject  was  referred  to  a  solemn  trial,  according  to  the 
practice  of  ihe  times.  At  this  examination,  it  appears 
that  not  only  were  the  facts  of  their  history  questioned, 
but  the  leading  men  catechized  even  upon  the  metaphysical 
"basis  of  their  rights,  being  asked  *'  what  is  liberty  ?"  and 
sundry  other  abstract  problems ;  but  their  historian,  with 
characteristic  partiality  perhaps,  declares  that  the  honest 
republicans  were  not  in  the  least  puzzled  or  confounded, 
but  exhibited  an  extraordinary  strength  and  clearness  of 
purpose,  as  well  as  a  singular  unanimity  of  feeling,  on 
this  memorable  occasion.  The  result,  however,  was  a 
declaration  against  them,  and  a  formal  assertion  of  the 
right  to  tax  on  the  part  of  the  church  and  other  authorities. 
Whether  this  right  was  ever  enforced  is  very  doubtful,  but 
from  the  endeavor  never  being  repeated,  the  inference  is 
that  the  parties  either  from  respect  to  the  people  or  from 
motives  of  policy,  were  content  with  merely  asserting 
their  claims.  The  simple  majesty  of  its  political  charac- 
ter seems  to  have  proved  remarkably  efficacious,  even  at 
this  early  period,  in  securing  for  San  Marino  a  degree  of 
consideration  wholly  disproportionate  to  its  diminutive 
size. 

Early   in  the  fourteenth  century,  the  supreme  magis- 


SAN    MARINO.  51 

trate's  title  of  Consul  was  changed  to  that  of  Captain  or 
Defender,  and  because  of  the  abuse  of  the  latter  in  Italy, 
the  former  was  ultimately  alone  retained.  At  this  pe- 
riod commenced  a  series  of  difliculties  with  Rimini,  in- 
duced by  clashing  interests  and  rival  jealousies.  The 
annalist  of  the  epoch  is  at  great  pains  to  show,  that  the 
connection  between  the  various  powerful  families  of  the 
neighboring  territory  and  the  republic,  was  simply  a  mu- 
tual league  implying  no  subjection.  This  assertion  is 
confirmed  by  the  singular  fidelity  manifested  by  the 
people  towards  friendly  barons.  The  threat  of  excommu- 
nication  failed  to  make  them  abandon  a  certain  feudal 
lord,  who  fled  to  their  citadel  to  escape  the  vengeance  of 
Pope  John.  It  is  proved  also,  by  several  existing  docu- 
ments, that  their  relations  with  the  Feltreschi  and  other 
distinguished  families  who  have  been  supposed  to  have 
exercised  feudal  authority  over  San  Marino,  were  merely 
those  of  friendly  alliance.  Thus  they  appear  to  have 
been  wholly  exempt  from  temporal  dominion,  and  as  to 
spiritual,  the  assumption  of  cardinal  Andrimini,  in  1M68, 
was  withdrawn  by  solemn  decree,  and  the  bishop  obliged 
to  disclaim  publicly  any  intention  of  seeking  authority. 
Soon  after,  a  more  insidious  enemy  to  the  republic  arose 
in  one  of  its  own  citizens,  Giacomo  Pelizzaro,  who  plot- 
ted with  the  Pode^ta  of  Brescia  and  the  archbishop  of 
Montefelire,  to  deliver  San  Marino  into  their  hands. 
His  plan  was  happily  discovered  before  its  execution. 
He  confessed  and  suffered  death  as  a  traitor. 

During  the  succeeding  era  of  private  and  bloody  feuds, 
San  Marino,  allied  to  Count  Guido,  was  more  fortunate 


52  SAN    MARINO. 

than  the  rest  of  Italy  in  escaping  (he  clangers  of  this  and 
other  alliances,  by  means  of  which,  treachery  or  the  exi- 
gencies of  the  times  could  have  so  easily  procured  the  re- 
public's ruin.  A  war  with  Sigismondi  Pandolfo,  Signore 
of  Rimini,  ended  in  his  downfall  and  an  increase  of  their 
territory,  attested  to  them  in  1463.  Now,  too,  we  find 
the  alliance  of  the  little  state  sought  by  the  larger  and  su- 
perior principalities  of  Italy,  a  fact  only  to  be  accounted 
for  by  the  reputation  it  enjoyed  for  the  character  of  its 
institutions.  In  1491,  during  one  of  those  fitful  intervals 
of  peace  which  occasionally  blessed  that  age  of  war  and 
turbulence,  among  the  meliorations  of  the  civil  code,  we 
find  statutes  enforcing  the  immediate  payment  of  public 
debts,  the  proclamation  of  criminal  sentences,  (he  obliga- 
tion of  the  captains  to  procure  as  far  as  possible  treaties 
of  peace  and  good  fellowship,  and  prohibiting  the  flogging 
of  children  under  four  years  of  age.  At  this  time,  some 
of  the  warriors  from  San  Marino  gained  much  renown  in 
the  battles  of  the  age,  and  several  men  of  distinguished 
talents  arose,  among  v;hom  were  tvvo  of  the  earliest  com- 
mentators of  Dante.  The  republic  appears  to  have  been 
singularly  favored  in  her  diplomatic  agents.  Her  ambas- 
sadors were  most  wisely  selected,  and  to  the  firmness 
and  wisdom  which  marked  their  proceedings  is  to  be  as- 
cribed the  almost  miraculous  escape  of  the  state  from  em- 
broilments  with  other  powers,  and  accounts,  in  no  small 
degree,  for  the  remarkable  esteem  she  gained  in  Italy. 
A  most  dangerous  era  for  9an  Marino  was  the  time  of  the 
infamous  Caesar  Borgia,  and  for  a  limited  space  she 
placedherself  under  the  protection  of  the  Ducadel  Valen- 


SAN    MARINO.  63 

tino.  Continuing,  however,  to  enjoy  the  amity  of  the  il- 
lustrious house  of  Urbino,  she  maintained  to  an  almost 
incredible  extent,  the  favor  of  the  church,  and  afforded  a  re- 
fuge,  often  at  great  risk,  to  the  many  persecuted  victims  of 
all  parties.  The  spirit  of  faction  and  the  priestly  preten- 
sions which  have  ever  been  the  bane  of  the  Italian  states, 
too  soon,  however,  induced  a  fatal  dereliction  from  the 
primitive  patriotism  and  honest  attachment  to  freedom. 
Another  cause  of  this  decline,  may  be  found  in  the  influence 
of  some  of  those  who  sought  an  asylum  within  the  limits 
of  San  Marino.  Refugees  from  all  parties,  they  natural- 
ly brought  and  disseminated  much  of  the  perverse  and  ex- 
citing spirit  of  the  times,  among  the  less  sophisticated  in- 
habitants. For  these  and  other  reasons,  the  commence- 
ment of  the  seventeenth  century  found  the  people  more 
exposed  than  they  had  been  to  the  subjection  which  the 
agents  of  the  Romish  church  so  constantly  and  insidious, 
ly  endeavored  to  effect.  An  intriguer,  according  to  his- 
tory, combining  all  the  low  cunning,  ambition  and  ready 
talent  necessary  to  promote  this  object,  soon  appeared. 
Alberoni  being  legate  in  Romagna,  undertook  to  befriend 
certain  men  who  were  suffering  under  the  just  awards  of 
the  tribunal  of  San  Marino.  The  republic,  from  the  deep 
conviction  of  the  bad  results  produced  by  allowing  justice 
to  be  impeded  by  priestly  intervention  and  coramenditizie, 
which  custom  had  been  grossly  abused  at  that  period, 
made  rigid  enactments  against  it ;  notwithstanding-  which, 
the  haughty  prelate  insisted  upon  the  privilege.  The  re- 
publicans vainly  explained  and  remonstrated  ;  yet  boldly 
maintained  their  rights.  Alberoni,  by  way  of  revenge, 
6* 


64  SAN    MARINO. 

caused  certain  of  their  citizens  to  be  imprisoned  in  Rimini, 
and  by  cutting  off  their  communication  with  the  surround- 
ing country  endeavored  to  produce  a  famine.  At  the 
same  time,  his  efforts  were  unremitted  to  seduce  the  most 
ill-disposed  of  the  citizens,  and  he  succeeded  in  securing 
the  cooperation  of  many  traitorous  abettors.  Misrepre* 
senting  them  to  the  Pope  and  sacred  college,  and  abusing 
the  authority  vested  in  him  by  the  pontiff,  he  artfully  in- 
duced thut  ruler  to  exert  a  special  commission  in  his  fa. 
vor,  and  under  its  shield  endeavored  to  annex  San  Marino, 
as  forfeited,  to  the  papal  territory.  At  length,  every 
thing  being  prepared  for  the  consummation  of  his  vile 
project,  on  the  twenty-fourth  of  October,  1739,  attended 
by  a  band  of  his  satellites,  he  passed  through  the  Borgo, 
and  was  even  cheered  by  some  of  the  infatuated  citizens. 
He  entered  the  sacred  temple  dedicated  to  Liberty  and 
their  Saint,  where  he  smoothed  over  with  subtle  words 
the  nefariousness  of  his  scheme  ;  and  Capitano  Giangi 
thus  acknowledged  his  concurrence :  "  JVel  di  primo  di 
Ottobre  giurai  fedeltd  al  mio  legittimoprincipe  della  Repu- 
blica  di  San  Marino ;  quel  giuramento  confenno  j  cosi 
giuro,^^  Giuseppe  Onofri  repeated  the  same  oath  ;  but,  Gi- 
rolamo  Gori  using  the  words  of  the  Saviour — "  let  this  cup 
pass  from  me  " —  protested  that  he  had  not  made  one  mark 
of  shame  upon  the  face  of  the  protecting  saint,  but  would  ever 
exclaim  ^'  Evviva  San  Marino,  evviva  la  Liberia!'^  These 
words  uttered  with  enthusiasm,  were  caught  and  repeated, 
until  they  resounded  through  the  holy  editice,  re-awakening 
the  dormant  patriotism  of  the  people  and  striking  fear  into 
the  heart  of  the  usurper.     The  functions  were  abruptly'' 


SAN   MARINO.  65 

closed  and  a  scene  of  disorder  ensued.  Before  Alberoni 
left  the  church,  he  threatened  the  rebellious  with  death. 
The  faithful  remained  to  concert  measures  for  the  safety 
of  their  country.  Perceiving  that  an  immediate  appeal 
to  force  would  be  useless,  they  determined  to  represent  the 
case  to  the  Pope  and  calmly  await  the  result,  meantime 
using  every  means  to  reanimate  the  drooping  spirit  of 
their  fellow-citizens.  Notwithstanding  the  age  and  im- 
becility of  Clement  XII.,  he  was  just  and  benevolent, 
and  upon  being  informed  of  the  facts,  indignantly  declared 
that  he  had  vested  no  authority  in  the  legate  to  attempt  ob- 
taining any  ascendancy  over  the  people  of  San  Marino, 
nor  to  interfere  with  their  rights — but  simply  to  exert  a 
spiritual  influence  and  protection.  To  contravene  the 
base  assumption  of  Alberoni,  he  despatched  Monsignor 
Napolitauo,  afterwards  Cardinal,  with  power  to  re-establish 
the  good  fame  of  the  papal  court,  and  secure  justice  to  the 
people.  Between  the  usurpation  of  Alberoni  and  the  re- 
stitution of  the  republic,  there  was,  however,  an  interreg- 
num of  three  months  and  a  half.  San  Marino  was  re- 
stored on  the  fifth  of  February,  the  day  of  the  sacred  vir- 
gin Agatha.  Shouts,  prayers,  tears  of  joy,  and  jubilee 
in  every  form,  announced  the  happy  event ;  and  the  day 
has  since  been  observed  as  a  festival.  Alberoni's  defence 
of  his  conduct  gave  rise  to  some  curious  literary  dis- 
cussion. The  event  redounded  to  the  improvement  of 
the  people,  operating  as  an  effectual  check  upon  the  pas- 
sion for  intrigue,  and  to  the  honor  of  Clement,  to  whom 
a  monument  was  erected  by  the  grateful  republicans. 
When  the  modern  conqueror  of  Europe  drew  near  the 


66  SAN    MARINO. 

confines  of  the  small  but  honored  state,  he  respected  its 
liberties.  Receiving  most  graciously  the  ambassadors 
from  San  Marino,  in  an  elegant  address,  he  alluded  to  the 
singular  preservation  of  their  freedom,  and  promised  his 
protection  ;  at  the  same  time  offering  to  enlarge  their  pos- 
sessions, and  tendering,  as  an  indication  of  his  respect 
and  good  will,  a  present  of  two  field-pieces.  Monge,  the 
ambassador,  made  an  eloquent  reply,  gratefully  acknow- 
ledging the  courtesy  of  Napoleon  and  applauding  his  for- 
bearance. The  people  declined  his  offers  and  present ; 
but  in  commemoration  of  the  occasion,  added  the  1 2th  of 
February,  1797,  as  another  joyous  anniversary,  to  the  re- 
public's calendar. 

The  original  government  was  simply  paternal.  The 
laws  sprang  from  necessity,  were  improved  by  experience, 
and  modified  from  time  to  time,  according  to  the  circum- 
stances and  wants  of  the  people.  Two  captains,  one  from 
the  signors  and  one  from  the  citizens  at  large,  are  elect- 
ed every  six  months.  No  individual  can  be  re-elected 
oftener  than  once  in  three  years.  Thus  all  deserving  the 
honor,  serve  in  turn.  No  prejudice  exists  with  respect 
to  age,  very  young  men  being  frequently  chosen  when  of 
great  promise  or  proved  worth.  It  is  only  indispensable 
that  the  captains  should  be  natives  of  the  republic.  The 
legislative  body  consists  of  a  council  of  seventy  and 
another  of  twelve.  A  judicial  magistrate  is  also  elected 
triennially  by  the  council.  The  state  includes  a  circuit 
of  twenty-five  miles,  and  its  present  population  is  between 
six  and  seven  thousand. 
,    Such  is  a  brief  sketch  of  the  history  of  San  Marina. 


SAN   MARINO.  67 

Its  long  imrpunity  from  conquest  and  despotism  and  the 
remarkable  perpetuity  of  its  institutions,  are  doubtless 
owing,  in  no  small  measure,  to  its  insignificant  size  and 
almost  impregnable  position.  Still  the  place  cannot  but 
possess  a  singular  interest  in  the  view  of  a  pilgrim  from 
the  New  World,  especially  when  its  present  condition  is 
contrasted  with  that  of  the  rest  of  Italy,  and  more  particu- 
larly of  the  surrounding  territory.  A  few  humble  domi- 
ciles scattered  along  the  lower  ridge  of  the  mountain, 
and  separated  by  a  narrow  and  rugged  street,  constitute 
"  11  Borgo."  Thence,  ascending  by  a  circuitous  path, 
we  soon  arrived  at  a  larger  collection  of  houses  which 
form  the  capital  of  the  republic.  It  differs  not  essentially 
from  similar  Italian  towns,  except  that  the  streets  are  nar- 
rower and  more  straggling.  The  new  church,  just  com- 
pleted, is  a  pretty  edifice  built  of  travertina,  excavated 
near  by,  after  the  design  of  Antonio  Sara.  The  twelve 
apostles  in  stucco,  placed  in  niches,  ornament  the  inte- 
rior, and  near  the  altar  is  a  handsome  marble  statue  of 
Saint  Marino,  recently  executed  by  a  Roman  Sculptor. 
He  is  represented  holding  a  scroll,  upon  which  the  arms 
of  the  republic  (three  towers  surmounted  by  as  many  pens, 
significant  of  the  union  of  strength  and  wisdom)  are 
sculptured  in  bronze,  with  the  word  Libertas.  This 
edifice  continues  as  in  ancient  times,  the  place  of 
elections  as  well  as  of  worship.  There  is  a  little 
theatre  where  diUetanti  occasionally  perform.  I  was  at 
some  pains  to  enter  this  miniature  temple  of  Thespis, 
for  the  sake  of  standing  in  the  only  theatre  in  Italy 
exempt  from  censorship,  and  where,  although  the  audi- 


68  SAN    MARINO. 

ence  is  small  and  the  spot  isolated,  free  expression  is 
given  to  any  sentiment  or  opinion  which  the  people 
choose  to  utter  or  applaud.  Crossing  a  grass<-gfown 
and  solitary  court  near  the  walls,  where  four  or  five 
cisterns  alone  gave  signs  of  the  vicinity  of  man,  we 
entered  a  small  and  time-worn  building  ornamented 
by  an  old  tower  and  clock,  and  ascending  a  narrow 
flight  of  steps,  were  ushered  into  the  council-room.  A 
few  wooden  seats  scattered  over  the  brick  floor,  upon 
the  back  of  which  are  rudely  painted  the  arms  of  the  re- 
public,  surround  an  ancient  chair  covered  with  crimson 
velvet,  placed  beneath  a  canopy  of  the  same  hue.  A  mu. 
tilated  picture  of  the  Holy  Family  by  Giulio  Romano, 
and  a  bust  of  their  favorite  ambassador,  Antonio  Honup- 
hrio,  are  the  only  ornaments  of  which  the  apartment 
boasts.  I  had  lingered,  but  a  day  or  two  previous,  in  the 
magnificent  halls  of  some  of  the  Bolognese  nobility,  where 
the  silken  drapery,  rich  marbles  and  splendid  works  of 
art,  weary  the  gaze.  But  this  plain  and  unadorned  cham- 
ber possessed  an  interest  which  their  profuse  decora- 
tions failed  to  inspire.  It  bespoke  narrower  resources 
but  a  richer  spirit.  The  presence  of  freedom  seemed  to 
hallow  every  sunbeam  that  played  upon  the  undecked 
walls.  Nor  have  mightier  principalities  disdained,  in 
our  day,  to  recognize  the  little  republic.  Among  its 
archives  are  many  communications  from  the  several  Ital- 
ian governments,  the  late  king  of  Spain,  and  the  present 
king  of  France.  Not  long  since,  a  prior  being  discover- 
ed  manifesting  a  disposition  to  intrigue  beyond  his  ap- 
propriate sphere,  was  bound,  conducted  to  the  confines 


SAN   MARINO.  69 

and  banished.  The  only  organized  force  is  the  militia, 
who  are  bound  to  second  tlie  executive  and  judicial  magis- 
trates. The  people,  however,  are  distinguished  for  their 
probity  and  peaceful  habits.  Most  of  them  are  engaged 
in  agriculture.  The  only  peculiar  trait  observable  among 
them,  is  an  inflexible  attachment  to  their  peculiar  insti- 
tutions  and  an  earnest  spirit  of  freedom.  But  recently, 
an  archbishop  whose  province  of  duty  properly  embraced 
two  towns,  one  of  which  was  San  Marino,  abandoned  the 
latter  in  disgust,  because  he  could  not  induce  the  people, 
on  public  ocasions,  to  salute  him  before  their  own  rulers. 
Every  half-year,  they  go  in  a  body  to  the  church,  and  de- 
posite  their  vote  for  captains  in  a  silver  vase.  The  result 
of  the  election  is  made  known  at  evening,  and  they  ac- 
company the  successful  candidate  home,  with  torches. 
Before  leaving  the  town,  I  ascended  to  the  old  castle. 
The  walls  command  a  most  extensive  and  beautiful  pros- 
pect, embracing  the  plains  of  Lombardy,  a  broad  sweep 
of  wild,  undulating  hills,  the  mountain  of  Anconaand  the 
waters  of  the  Adriatic.  It  was  a  delightful  pastime  to  sit 
in  the  pleasant  sunshine  of  autumn,  and  gazing  from  this 
little  spot  of  free  earth  over  such  a  landscape,  let  the 
imagination  luxuriate  amid  the  thrilling  associations  of 
the  scene.  We  ftund  but  one  occupant  of  the  prison. 
The  <:;ate  was  opened  by  a  pretty  blue-eyed  woman,  the 
wife  of  the  gaoler,  who  follows  the  trade  of  a  cobbler  in 
the  belfry  of  one  of  the  three  towers.  There  is  one  horrid 
dungeon  where  a  traitor  priest  suffered  a  long  imprison- 
ment ;  but  the  number  of  available  cells  is  only  three — 
which  speaks  well  for  the  general  character  of  the  people. 


60  '         SAN    MARINO. 

When,  on  our  return,  we  reached  the  little  bridge  which 
divides  the  republican  territory  from  Rimini,  a  venerable 
woman  was  leaning  upon  the  parapet,  her  grey  hair  flutter- 
ing in  the  wind,  in  earnest  conversation  with  a  hardy 
stripling  who  stood  at  a  short  distance  from  her.  He 
was  a  political  fugitive  who  had  found  safety  within  the 
bounds  of  San  Marino,  and  she  was  his  mother  just  arri- 
ved from  a  town  in  the  vicinity  to  visit  him.  The  inci- 
dent excited  a  pleasing  train  of  reflections.  San  Marino 
has  rendered  no  small  service  to  the  cause  of  liberty, 
by  sheltering  the  many  unfortunate  victims  of  unsuccess- 
ful revolution.  For  such  she  has  ever  a  welcome.  The 
pope  has  been  obliged  to  compromise  with  the  re- 
publicans, by  agreeing  that  refugees  from  his  terri- 
tory may  travel  unmolested  for  a  certain  period,  with  a 
passport  from  the  authorities  of  San  Marino.  This  ar 
rangement  has  been  eminently  serviceable  in  protecting 
the  persons  and  rights  of  the  liberals,  and  excited  much 
gratitude  and  respect  towards  the  state.  The  setting  sun 
gleamed  upon  the  summit  of  the  mountain,  as  I  turned 
back  to  take  a  farewell  glimpse  of  this  little  nestling-place 
of  freedom.  I  remembered  the  contented  and  happy 
looks  of  the  peasantry,  and  recalled  the  testimony 
they  all  so  cordially  bore  to  the  superior  privileges 
they  enjoyed.  I  mused  upon  the  remarkable  preservation 
of  that  isolated  spot  amid  the  unhappy  destinies  of  the 
land.  1  strove  to  impress  the  picturesque  locality  upon 
my  memory ;  and  pleased  my  heart  with  the  thought  that 
there  was  still  one  little  green  leaf  in  the  withered  crown 
pf  Italy. 


TURIN 


"  Embosomed  by  the  hills,  whose  forms  around 
Stand  sentinei'd  with  grandeur." 

Anon. 

One  of  the  circumstances  which  gives  the  traveller  ra- 
iher  painful  assurance  of  his  approach  to  the  northern 
confines  of  Italy,  is  that  he  finds  himself  once  more  en- 
sconced within  that  most  comfordess  of  all  locomotives, 
except  the  lettigu  of  Sicily, — a  Diligence.  The  strag- 
gling, untrimmed  horses,  and  harlequin-looking  postilions 
bobbing  up  and  down  most  pitifully  ;  the  constant  crack- 
ing of  the  whip,  and  the  lurching  and  shivering  of  the 
clumsy  fabric,  are  but  the  exterior  graces  which  the 
vehicle  boasts.  At  night,  the  roof  within  is  often  hung 
with  baskets  of  provisions,  and  countless  hats  and  bon- 
nets which  dangle  most  disturbingly  in  the  face  of  the 
sleeping  passenger  ;  and  when  he  has,  at  length,  lost 
himself  in  a  pleasant  dream,  and  commenced  an  imagin- 
ary colloquy  with  some  fair  object  left  at  the  place  of  his 
last  sojourn,  a  sudden  jolt  pitches  him  upon  his  neighbor, 
or  an  abrupt  stoppage  of  the  ponderous  machine,  rouses 

6 


62  TURIN. 

him  to  a  sense  of  stiffened  joints,  yawning  ostlers,  and  an 
execrating  conducteiir.  It  is,  however,  well  that  one 
leaving  ihe  dreamy  atmosphere  of  the  South,  should  be 
thus  initiated  into  a  more  practical  habit,  and  have  the 
radiant  mists  of  imagination  dissipated  from  his  brain. 
The  Diligence  is  an  excellent  preparatory  symbol  of  the 
more  utilitarian  regions  and  prosaic  localities,  towards 
which  his  pilgrimage  tends.  From  the  corner  of  one  of 
these  minature  arks — despite  the  grumbling  of  an  old  lady 
by  my  side,  the  nap  of  whose  lap-dog  I  disturbed,  and  the 
angry  chattering  of  a  parrot,  whose  pendant  cage  was  vi- 
brating  overhead — I  succeeded,  one  afternoon,  in  with- 
drawing myself  sufficiently,  to  look  from  the  window  over 
the  surrounding  fields.  They  presented  a  broad  level 
plain,  covered  with  fresh  green  grain,  which  a  band  of 
women,  whose  heads  were  enveloped  in  red  cotton  hand- 
kerchiefs, were  assiduously  reaping.  The  air  was  still, 
and  the  sky  cloudy.  A  few  trees,  chiefly  small  poplars 
and  mulberries,  rose  here  and  there  along  the  road.  And 
yet,  meagre  as  was  the  natural  scenery,  it  was  a  spot 
abounding  in  interest.  Thirty-eight  years  before,  it  was 
the  arena  where  contending  armies  battled  for  the  posses- 
sion of  Italy,  and  men  were  mown  down  as  the  grain,  then 
waving  over  their  graves,  fell  beneath  the  sickles  of  the 
reapers.  It  was  the  plain  of  Marengo.  Near  yonder 
plantation  of  vines,  Desaix  took  up  his  position.  Across 
these  fields  the  French  line  sti  etched  imposingly  away. 
And  when  the  Austrians  were  so  incautiously  pursuing 
their  success,  it  was  in  the  midst  of  this  now  deserted  level, 
that  Napoleon  met  his  brave  ally,  who,  rushing  forward 


TURIN.  63 

at  his  bidding,  met,  almost  immediately,  his  death.  It 
was  hence,  too,  that  the  brave  Melas,  then  more  than 
eighty  years  of  age,  considering  the  day  won,  and  over- 
come with  fatigue,  retired  to  Alexandria,  only  to  hear  in 
a  few  hours,  of  his  army's  defeat.  After  this  celebrated 
battle,  Turin  became  the  metropolis  of  the  French  depart- 
ment of  the  Po,  and  fourteen  years  after  was  restored  to 
Sardinia.  It  is  not  surprising  that  the  young  mind  of 
Alfieri  was  greatly  impressed  on  entering  this  city.  Its 
broad,  clean  streets  radiating  from  a  common  centre  ;  its 
airy  arcades  forming,  like  the  passages  of  the  French  me- 
tropolis, most  agreeable  promenades,  and  its  cheerful  as- 
pect may  well  captivate  a  stranger's  eye.  One  scarcely 
realizes,  at  Turin,  that  he  is  within  the  precints  of  an  Ita- 
lian city.  There  is  a  modern  look  about  the  buildings, 
an  elegance  in  the  shops  and  caff^s,  and  altogether  an  air 
of  life  and  gayety,  which  brings  Paris  forcibly  to  mind. 
Indeed,  the  proximity  of  this  capital  to  France,  neutrali- 
zes, in  no  small  degree,  its  Ausonian  characteristics. 
The  language  is  a  mixture  of  French  and  Italian  ;  and 
Goldoni  found  the  taste  here  so  strong  for  the  French 
stage,  that,  during  his  visit  to  Turin,  he  composed  his  co- 
medy of  Moliere,  to  avail  himself  of  the  attraction  of  that 
author's  name.  There  are  few  finer  public  squares  in 
Europe  than  the  Piazza  del  Castello,  and  no  more 
beautiful  prospect  of  its  kind  than  that  from  the  church  of 
La  Superga,  where  the  bones  of  the  Sardinian  kings  re- 
pose. The  small  number  of  paupers,  and  the  frequent 
instances  of  manly  beauty  among  the  military  officers, 
are  peculiarly  striking.     Sometimes,  beneath  the  porches, 


64  TURIN. 

a  procession  of  nuns,  poorly  but  neatly  clad,  is  encoun- 
tered, with  garlands  and  tapers,  headed  by  a  fat  priest 
chanting  the  burial  service.  The  neighborhood  of  the 
Alps  is  disagreeably  indicated  by  the  number  of  women 
seen  in  the  streets  with  goitres.  They  come,  for  the 
most  part,  from  the  base  of  Mt.  Cenis  and  Susa,  where 
this  disease  is  very  common,  and  still  attributed  by  the 
common  people,  to  the  chill  the  throat  constantly  receives 
from  the  extreme  coldness  of  the  water.  We  are  remind- 
ed of  old  Gonzalo's  query  in  the  Tempest : — '  Who  would 
believe  that  there  were  Mountaineers  dew-lapp'd  like 
bulls,  whose  throats  had  hanging  at  them  wallets  of 
flesh  V  Turin  is  the  coldest  city  in  Italy.  The  circum- 
adjacent  mountains  are  scarcely  ever  entirely  free  from 
snow.  As  one  looks  upon  them,  frequently  surmounted 
by  variegated  clouds,  or,  in  dull  weather,  bathed  with  the 
yellow  gleam  of  the  struggling  sunbeams  playing  on  their 
white  scalps,  with  here  and  there  a  dark  streak  where  the 
snow  has  melted  away,  the  appropriateness  of  the  name  of 
this  section  of  Italy  becomes  more  apparent — ^9ie  di 
monte — foot  of  the  mountains. 

I  found  an  unusual  number  of  priests  reading  in  the 
University  library,  and  not  a  few  peasants  seated  at  the 
readiuii  desks — a  note-worthy  and  pleasant  circumstance. 
It  is  interesting,  when  wandering  about  the  precincts  of 
this  institution,  to  remember  that  it  was  the  scene  of  that 
mis-education,  of  which  Alfieri  has  drawn  so  vivid  a  pic- 
ture  in  his  autobiography.  It  was  here  that  so  many  of 
his  young  days  were  wasted  in  wearisome  sickness ; 
where  he  was  bribed  or  threatened  into  labors  for  his  stu» 


TUBIN.  65 

pid  but  powerful  school  mate  ;  where  he  looked  so  long 
upon  the  adjacent  theatre,  which  he  was  only  allowed  to 
enter  five  or  six  times  a  year,  during  carnival;  and  where 
he  suffered  so  long  from  the  tyranny  of  a  capricious  and 
pampered  valet.  In  Turin,  the  stern  tragedian  first  knew 
the  sweet  delights  of  poetry  in  his  stolen  and  secret  com- 
munion with  Ariosto  and  Metastasio.  Here  he  laid  the 
foundation  of  those  dissipated  habits  which,  he  had  the 
rare  moral  courage  to  vanquish — suddenly  vaulting  from 
the  low  level  of  a  life  of  pleasure,  to  the  most  determined 
and  assiduous  career  that  genius  and  industry  ever 
achieved.  Here,  too,  his  ardent  soul  first  experienced 
the  delicious  excitements  of  music,  horsemanship,  and 
love — those  inspiring  resources  of  his  after  years. 

The  exhibition  of  the  stranger's  passport  at  Turin,  is 
sufficient  to  introduce  him  to  the  Royal  Gallery.  It  is 
interesting  chiefly  for  its  specimens  of  the  Vandyck 
school — those  expressive  portraits  which  have  so  long 
formed  the  study  of  artists,  and  ever  charmed  that  large  por- 
tion of  the  curious  who  delight  in  observing  the  'human 
face  divine.'  There  is  one  of  Carlo  Dolce's  most  charac- 
teristic Madonnas,  full  of  the  mildness,  soft  coloring,  and 
timid  execution  which  belong  to  his  heads.  That  class 
of  woman's  admirers,  who  would  fain  make  the  standard 
of  her  attractiveness  proportionate  to  the  absence  of  any 
strong  traits,  should  collect  the  female  faces  portrayed  by 
this  artist.  A  short  time  spent  in  contemplating  such  an 
array,  would  convince  them  of  the  absolute  necessity  of 
elevating  their  ideal  of  the  sex,  if  they  would  have  the 
gpell  of  their  graces  perpetuated.     But  the  picture  which 

6* 


66  TURIN. 

chains  the  attention  in  this  gallery,  is  one  of  Murillo's 
master-pieces.  Some  of  the  biographers  ot  the  Spanish 
limner,  seem  to  lament  that  his  purpose  of  visiting  Italy 
was  never  fulfilled.  It  would  certainly  be  a  cause  of  just 
regret,  if  the  obscurity  of  his  lot  had  doomed  him  for  life, 
to  paint  nothing  but  banners  for  exportation,  and  fruit 
pieces  for  immediate  sale  ;  but  since  scope  was  given  to 
his  genius  at  the  Escurial,  and  it  was  encouraged  to  a 
free  and  happy  developiuent  at  home,  we  cannot  but  deem 
it  a  happy  destiny  that  prevented  him  from  ever  leaving 
his  native  country.  There  is  no  little  error  in  the  preva- 
lent notion,  that  a  true  painter,  so  constituted  by  nature, 
is  necessarily  to  improve  by  a  visit  to  Italy.  On  the  con- 
trary, numerous  instances  might  be  cited,  where  such  a 
course  has  been  fatal  to  the  individuality  of  the  artist's 
style.  His  real  force  is  thereby  often  sacrificed  to  a  false 
manner.  Servile  imitation  frequently  supersedes 
originality.  He  ponders  the  works  of  the  old  masters  too 
often,  only  to  adopt  certain  of  their  peculiarities,  instead 
of  being  quickened  to  put  forth  what  is  characteristic  in 
himself.  Such  has,  in  many  cases,  been  the  result  with 
regard  to  young  votaries  of  art  among  us,  who  after  giving 
certain  proofs  of  talent,  have  gone  abroad  only  to  bring 
home  an  improved  taste,  perhaps,  but  not  seldom  a  far 
inferior  execution.  Murillo  was  a  genuine  child  of  na- 
ture. He  painted,  as  Goldsmith  wrote,  from  individual 
inspiration.  Who  laments  that  his  style  is  not  so  elevated 
as  that  of  Raphael,  nor  so  graceful  as  that  of  Correggio  ? 
If  it  were  one  or  the  other  or  both,  he  would  not  be  Mu- 
rillo.     What  we  love  in  him,   is  his  singular  truth  to 


TURIN.  67 

nature — so  fresh  and  vivid  in  expression — such  a  unity 
of  coloring,  such  a  semblance  of  life  !  When  one  stands 
before  his  Mother  and  Child,  in  the  Palace  at  Florence, 
does  it  require  much  imagination,  momentarily  to  fancy, 
that  the  infant  is  springing  from  the  bosom  of  its  mother 
into  our  arms  ?  There  is  an  almost  perceptible  motion 
in  its  posture,  and  a  look  of  recognition  in  its  eyes,  that 
haunts  us  at  every  step.  How  often  does  the  traveller  in 
Italy — he  who  is  wedded  to  that  inexpressible  charm  in 
life,  society  and  art,  which  we  call  nature — lament  the 
paucity  of  Murillo's  paintings  !  How  often  does  he  sigh 
for  ajourney  into  Spain,  that  he  may  behold  more  of  them  ! 
The  picture  of  which  Turin  boasts,  represents  Homer 
with  the  laurel  wreath  straggling  round  his  head,  as  an 
impvovisatore,  and  an  amanuensis  recording  his  song. 
The  bard  appears  like  a  fresh  portrait  of  one  of  those 
blind  old  men  so  often  seen  in  southern  Europe.  The 
singular  blandness  of  such  countenances  who  has  not 
noted  ?  They  wear  a  pensive,  but  peaceful  expression,  as 
if  sweet  thoughts  were  cheering  their  darkness.  The 
light  of  poetry  hovers  round  the  brow.  We  feel  that  al. 
though  bereft  of  vision,  the  bard  sees.  The  deep  things 
of  life  are  unveiled  to  his  inward  gaze.  And,  then,  how 
plainly  the  other  figure  listens  !  We  soon  cease  to  la- 
ment the  blindness  of  the  minstrel,  in  regretting  that  he 
is  dumb. 

A  son  of  Carlo  Botta,  the  historian,  follows  the  profes- 
sion of  an  engraver  in  this  capital.  It  is  but  recently 
that  his  justly  renowned  parent  died  in  poverty  at  Paris. 
Five  hundred  copies  of  his  works,  in  sheets,  were  given, 


68  TURIN. 

as  the  only  recompense  in  his  power  to  afford,  to  the  phy- 
sicians who  attended  his  wife  in  her  last  illness.  This  adds 
one  more  to  the  countless  anecdotes  illustrative  of  the 
melancholy  lot  of  authors.  But  in  this  instance,  the  high 
merit  and  estimable  qualities  of  the  individual,  enhance 
the  pain  with  which  every  feeling  mind  must  contemplate 
his  fate.  It  would  be  a  pleasing  thought  if  we,  the  pecple 
of  a  free  and  prosperous  land,  had  contributed  to  the  com- 
fort  of  one  in  his  declining  years,  who,  when  in  the  full 
vigor  ofhis  intellect,  devoted  himself,  most  enthusiastical- 
ly, to  recording  the  history  of  our  Revolution.  The  de- 
tails of  the  war  ofindepender.ee  are  chiefly  known  on  the 
continent  through  the  history  of  Botta.  No  single  work 
has  served  so  effectually  to  establish  the  fame  of  that  glo- 
rious  event  in  the  minds  of  Italians.  One  of  the  first 
questions  they  ask  a  comer  from  the  New  World  is,  if  he 
has  read  La  Guerra  Americana  by  Carlo  Botta?  The 
work  is  a  beautiful  monument  of  the  sympathy  of  one  of 
the  gifted  of  that  nation  in  the  cause  of  freedom  ;  and 
happy  would  it  have  been,  had  our  government  added  to 
the  honorary  title  of  citizen,  the  means  of  smoothing  the 
venerable  historian's  passage  to  the  grave.  Atsother 
of  his  sons  is  travelling  in  Arabia,  for  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes.  The  father's  last  literary  eff*ort  was  a  transla- 
tion of  a  voyage  round  the  world  bj  an  American  ca;  tain, 
of  whom  this  son  was  a  companion.  The  latter  is  about 
publishing  it,  and  the  proceeds,  with  the  hon-  rable  name 
he  boasts,  will  constitute  his  paternal  heritage. 

I  could   not  leave  Turin,   without  seeing  the  author  of 
Le  Mie  Pri§;ioni.     That  beautiful  and  affecting  record 


TURIN.  69 

of  human  suffering  has  spread  the  name  of  Silvio  Pellico 
over  the  civilized  world.  The  despots  of  Europe  have 
endeavoied  in  vain  to  prevent  its  entrance  into  their  ter- 
ritories ;  being  well  aware,  that  no  harsh  invectives 
Against  tyranny,  no  panegyrics  in  praise  of  free  institu- 
tions, however  eloquent  and  insidious,  possess  a  tithe 
of  the  power  to  arouse  men  to  a  sense  of  their  rights, 
which  lives  in  such  a  calm  and  simple  narrative  of  one  of 
the  victims  of  their  cruelty.  How  many  honest  bosoms 
have  glowed  with  indignation  at  the  picture  this  amiable 
and  gifted  Italian  has  painted,  of  his  tortures  under  the 
leads  of  a  Venetian  prison,  and  amid  the  cold  walls  of 
the  Spielberg  fortress!  How  many  have  admired  the  re- 
sources of  intellect,  philosophy,  and  affection,  by  which 
the  unfortunate  prisoner  made  even  captivity  cajitive ! 
His  correspondence  with  his  fellow  sufferer,  his  league 
of  amity  with  his  keeper,  his  reading,  poems,  and  reve- 
ries— how  do  they  shed  a  halo  of  moral  brightness  around 
the  gloom  of  his  dungeon  !  His  hope  deferred,  his  ago. 
nizing  suspense,  and,  at  length,  his  liberation  and  happy 
return  to  the  bosom  of  his  family — all  related  with  so 
much  truthfulness  and  feeling, — what  an  interest  have 
they  excited  in  behalf  of  the  innocent  object  of  such  cruel 
persecution!  Sharing  this  sentiment,  1  was  not  a  little 
disappointed  to  find  that  Pellico  was  absent  from  the 
group  of  Piedmoutese  literati,  who  convene  every  eve- 
ning at  one  of  the  caff^s.  An  abb^,  his  friend,  informed 
me,  that  the  illness  of  his  father  confined  Silvio  almost 
constantly  at  home.  Every  one  remembers  the  deep  af- 
fection  with  which  he  always  alludes  to  his  parents.     I 


70 


TURIN. 


found  that  the  strength  of  this  sentiment  was  not  exagger- 
ated in  his  memoirs.  His  father  was  rapidly  declining 
with  age,  and  the  son  only  left  his  bed-side  for  a  few 
moments  to  breathe  the  fresh  air.  At  one  of  these  inter- 
vals, I  paid  him  a  visit.  Pellico  is  now  about  thirty-eight 
years  of  age,  small  in  stature,  and  wears  glasses.  His 
complexion  is  deadly  pale,  blanched  by  the  blighting  sha- 
dow of  a  dungeon.  His  brow  is  broad  and  high,  and  his 
expression  serious  and  thoughtful.  He  was  courteous 
and  affable,  spoke  with  deep  emotion  of  his  father,  and 
seemed  much  gratified  at  the  interest  his  work  had  exci- 
ted in  America.  Notwithstanding  the  immense  number 
of  copies  of  Le  JMie  Frigioni  which  have  been  sold  on 
the  continent,  and  that  it  has  been  translated  into  so  many 
languages,  the  author  has  derived  no  pecuniary  benefit, 
except  the  two  thousand  francs  he  received  from  the 
-original  publisher  at  Turin.  He  is  at  present  patron- 
ized by  a  rich  and  liberal  Marchesa,  who  has  made  him 
her  librarian.  He  dines  almost  daily  at  her  table,  but 
resides  with  his  parents.  It  must  be  confessed,  that  the 
sufferings  of  Pellico  have,  in  no  small  measure,  subdued 
his  early  enthusiasm.  Some  of  the  young  advocates  of 
liberal  principles,  in  Italy,  profess  no  little  disappoint- 
ment, that  one  who  was  so  near  becoming  a  martyr  to 
their  cause,  should  have  turned  devotee.  They  are  dis- 
pleased that  Pellico  should  now  only  employ  his  pen  upon 
Catholic  hymns  and  religious  odes.  Such  objectors 
seem  not  to  consider  the  extent  and  severity  of  the  trials  to 
which  the  mind  of  the  author  has  been  exposed.  They 
appear,  too,  to  lose  sight  of  the  peril  of  his  situation.     It 


TURIN.  71 

is  only  by  retirement  and  quiet,  that  he  can  hope  to  en- 
joy in  peace,  the  privilege  of  watching  over  and  consoling 
the  last  years  of  his  parents.  Jealous  eyes  are  ever  upon 
him.  Few  are  the  spirits  which  would  not  be  unnerved 
from  their  native  buoyancy,  by  such  a  tragic  experience  as 
he  has  known  ;  few  the  hearts  that  would  not,  at  the  close 
of  such  sufferings,  fall  back  upon  themselves,  and  cherish 
serenity  as  the  great  boon  of, existence.  When  I  received 
his  kindly-uttered  buon  viaggio^  and  followed  his  retreat- 
ing figure  as  he  went  to  resume  his  station  by  his  father's 
bed-side,  I  could  not  but  feel  that  the  tyranny  of  Austria 
had  nut  yet  exhausted  itself  upon  his  nature — that  his  spir- 
it had  not  wholly  rebounded  from  the  repression  of  despot- 
ism ;  but  I  felt,  too,  that  he  had  nobly  endured  enough  to 
deserve  universal  sympathy,  and  be  wholly  justified  in  ap- 
plying to  himself  the  sentiment  of  Milton  :  *  They  also 
serve  who  only  stand  and  wait,' 


LOVE    IN   A    LAZZARET. 


'  The  cell 
Haunted  by  love,  the  earliest  oracle.' 

Byron. 

The  surface  of  the  sea  assumed  the  crystalline  quiet- 
ude of  a  summer  calm.  The  dangling  sails  flapped 
wearily  ;  the  sun  slept  with  a  fierce  and  dead  heat  upon 
the  scorching  deck ;  and  even  the  thin  line  of  smoke 
which  rose  from  Stromboli,  appeared  fixed,  like  a  light 
cloud,  in  the  breezeless  sky.  I  sought  relief  from  the  mo- 
notonous stillness  and  oflTensive  glare,  by  noting  my  feUow 
passengers,  who  seemed  to  have  caught  the  quiescent  mood 
of  surrounding  nature,  and  resigned  themselves  to  listless- 
ness  and  silence.  Delano  was  lolling  upon  a  light  set- 
tee, supporting  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  with  half, 
closed  eyes,  thinking,  I  well  knew,  of  the  friends  we  had 
left,  a  few  hours  before,  in  Sicily.  Of  all  Yankees  I  ever 
saw,  my  companion  most  rarely  combined  the  desirable 
peculiarities  of  that  unique  race  with  the  superadded 
graces  of  less  inflexible  natures.     For  native  intellgence 


LOVE    IN    A    LAZZARET.  73 

and  ready  perception,  for  unflinching  principle  and  manly 
sentiment,  his  equal  is  seldom  encountered  ;  but  the  idea 
of  thrift,  the  eager  sense  of  self-interest,  and  the  iron 
bond  of  local  prejudice,  which  too  often  disfigure  the  unal- 
loyed New-England  character,  had  been  tempered  to  their 
just  proportion,  in  his  disposition,  by  the  influence  of 
travel  and  society.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  deck,  sat 
a  young  lady,  regarding  with  a  half-painful,  half  devoted 
expression,  a  youth  who  was  leaning  against  the  compan- 
ion-way, ever  and  anon  glancing  at  the  small  yellow  slip- 
pers that  encased  his  feet,  while  he  complacently  arranged 
his  luxuriant  mustaches.  These  two  were  affianced; 
and  by  a  brief  observation  of  their  mutual  bearing,  I  soon 
inferred  the  history  of  the  connection,  and  subsequent 
knowledge  confirmed  my  conjecture. 

The  Prince  of had  paid  his  addresses  to  the  eldest 

daughter  of  the  Duke  de  Falco,  with  a  view  of  replenish- 
ing his  scanty  purse  ;  and  by  dint  of  some  accomplish- 
ments and  much  plausibility,  had  succeeded  not  only  in 
obtaining  the  promise  of  her  hand,  but  in  winning  the 
priceless,  but  alas !  unrecompensed  boon  of  her  affec- 
tion. Often,  in  the  course  of  our  voyage,  when  I  marked 
her  sudden  gaze  of  disappointment,  as  she  sought  in  vain 
for  a  responsive  glance  from  her  betrothed,  1  could  not 
but  realize  one  fruitful  source  of  that  corruption  of  man- 
ners which  characterizes  the  island  of  their  birth.  And 
not  unfrequently,  as  I  saw  the  parental  pride  and  tender- 
ness with  which  the  old  man  caressed  his  children,  have 
I  wondered  that  he  could  ever  bring  himself  to  sacrifice 
their  best  happiness  to  ambitious  designs.     Yet  the  histo- 

7 


74  LOVE    IN    A    LAZZARET. 

ry  of  every  European  fiimily  abounds  in  such  dark  epi- 
sodes. The  daughters  of  the  South  open  their  eyes  upon 
the  fairest  portion  of  the  universe,  and  during  the  unso- 
phisticated years  of  early  youth,  their  affections,  precoci- 
ously developed  by  a  genial  clime  and  ardent  tempera- 
ment, become  -interested  in  the  first  being  who  appeals  to 
their  sympathies,  or  captivates  their  imagination.  The 
claims  of  these  feelings,  the  first  and  deepest  of  which 
they  are  conscious,  if  at  all  opposed  to  previous  pro- 
jects of  personal  aggrandizement,  are  scorned  by  their  natu- 
ral guardians.  And  yet  when  the  warmest  and  richest  at- 
tributes of  their  natures  are  thus  unceremoniously  sacrificed 
to  some  scheme  of  heartless  policy,  it  is  deemed  wonder. 
ful  that  in  the  artificial  society  thus  formed,  principle  and 
fidelity  do  not  abide !  ^Vhat  is  so  f?acred  in  the  rstima- 
tion  of  youth,  as  a  spontaneous  sentiment?  And  when 
this  is  treated  with  cold  sacrilege,  what  hallowed  ground  of 
the  heart  remains,  on  whichVirtue  can  rear  her  indestruct- 
ible temple  ?  '1  he  elder  children,  however,  are  generally 
the  victims  of  this  convent  al  system,  and  when  its  main 
object  is  accomplished,  the  others  are  often  left  to  the  exer- 
cise of  their  natural  freedom.  "\^'ith  this  consoling  reflec- 
tion, I  turned  to  the  second  sister,  who  w^as  reading  near 
by,  under  the  shadow  of  a  light  umbrella,  which  a  young 
Frenchman  held  over  her  head.  IS  ever  were  two  coun- 
tenances more  in  contrast,  than  those  of  the  donna  Paoli- 
iia,  and  ilMonsieur  Jacques.  There  were  certain  indica- 
tions in  the  play  of  her  mouth  and  expression  of  her  eye, 
that,  youthful  as  she  was,  the  morning  of  her  life  had  been 
familiar  with  some  of  those  deep  trials  of  feeling,  the  efliect 


LOVE    IN    A    LAZZARET.  75 

of  which  never  wholly  vanishes  from  the  face  of  woman. 
His  physiognomy  evinced  both  intelligence  and  amiabil- 
ity, and  yet  one  might  study  it  for  ever,  and  not  feel  that 
it  was  animated  by  a  soul.  Upon  a  mattress  beneath  the 
awning,  her  shoulders  propped  up  by  pillows,  and  her 
form  covered  with  a  silk  cloak,  reposed  the  youngest,  and 
by  far  the  most  loyely,  of  the  sisterss.  Angelica  had  seen 
but  sixteen  summers,  notwithstanding  the  maturity  of  ex- 
pression and  manner  so  perceptible  above  the  child-1  ke 
demeanor  of  girlhood.  Her  dark  hair  lay  half  unloosed 
around  one  ofthe  sweetest  brows,  and  relieved  the  richbloom 
of  her  complexion,  as  she  dozed,  unconscious  of  the  admi- 
ring gaze  of  a  Neapolitan  officer,  who  stood  at  her  feet.  I 
had  scarcely  time  to  notice  the  exquisite  contour  ot  her 
features,  when  she  started  at  an  observation  of  her  sister, 
and  the  smile  and  voice  with  which  she  replied,  redoubled 
the  silent  enchantment  of  her  beauty.  At  a  distance  from 
us  all,  as  if  to  complete  the  variety  of  the  party,  stood  an 
Englishman,  whose  folded  arms  and  averted  gaze  suffi- 
ciently indicated  that,  for  the  time  at  least,  he  had 
enveloped  himself  in  the  forbidding  cnantle  of  his  nation's 
reserve. 

At  sunset,  a  fresh  breeze  sprang  up,  and  the  spirits  of 
ourlittle  party  rose  beneath  its  invigorating  breath.  I  have 
often  had  occasion  to  observe  the  admirable  facility  wiih 
which  travellers  in  some  parts  of  Europe  assimilate.  It. 
alsvays  struck  me  as  delightfully  human.  One  may 
traverse  the  whole  extent  of  the  United  States,  and  all  the 
while  feel  himself  a  stranger.  If  a  fellow  traveller 
engage  him  in  conversation,  it  is  probably  merely  for  the 


76  LOVE    IN    A    LAZZARET. 

purpose  of  extracting  information,  satisfying  curiosity, 
or  ascertaining  his  opinions  on  politics  or  religion, 
objects  so  intrinsically  selfish,  that  the  very  idea  of  them 
is  sufficient  to  repel  any  thing  like  the  cordial  and  frank 
interchange  of  feeling.  This  is  perhaps  one  reason  why 
our  people  have  such  a  passion  for  rapid  journeys.  One 
of  the  chief  pleasures  of  a  pilgrimage  is  unknown  to  them  ; 
and  it  is  not  wonderful  that  men  should  wish  to  fly  through 
that  worst  of  solitudes,  the  desert  of  a  crowd.  In  the  old 
world,  however,  and  especially  in  its  southern  regions,  it 
is  deemed  but  natural  that  those  who  are  thrown  together 
within  the  precincts  of  the  same  vessel  or  carriage,  should 
maintain  that  kindly  intercourse  which  so  greatly  en- 
hances the  pleasures  and  lessens  the  inconvenience 
of  travel.  In  the  present  instance,  a  score  of  people 
were  collected  on  board  the  same  craft,  and  destined  to 
pass  several  days  in  company,  strangers  to  each  other, 
yet  alike  endowed  with  common  susceptibilities  and 
wants  ;  what  truer  philosophy  than  to  meet  freely  on  the 
arena  of  our  common  humanity  ?  Fortunately,  we  had 
all  been  long  enough  abroad,  to  be  prepared  to  ad 'pt  this 
course,  and  accordingly,  it  was  interesting  to  remark, 
how  soon  we  were  at  ease,  and  on  the  friendly  footing  of 
old  acquaintances.  There  was  a  general  emulation  to  be 
disinterested.  One  vied  with  the  other  in  offices  of  cour- 
tesy, and  even  the  incorrigible  demon  of  the  mnl  ftnr  mer 
was  speedily  exorcised  by  the  magic  wand  of  sympathy, 
I  was  impressed,  as  I  had  often  been  before,  by  the  fact 
that  the  claims  of  a  foreigner  seemed  to  be  graduated,  in 
the  estimation  of  the  natives,  by  the  distance  of  his  coun- 


LOVE    IN    A    LAZZARET.  77 

try.  Delano  and  myself,  when  known  to  be  Americans, 
soon  became  the  special  recipients  of  kindness  ;  and  the 
ten  days  at  sea  passed  away  like  a  few  hours.  We  walk- 
ed the  deck,  when  it  was  sufficiently  calm,  with  our  fair 
companions,  in  friendly  converse  ;  and  leaned  over  the 
side,  at  sun-set,  to  study  the  gorgeous  cloud-pictures  of 
the  western  sky.  We  traced  together  the  beautiful  sce- 
nery of  the  isles  in  the  Bay  of  Naples,  and  the  night  air 
echoed  with  the  chorus  of  our  songs.  And  when  blessed  by 
the  moonlight,  which  renders  transcendant  the  beauty  of 
these  regions,  our  vigils  were  interrupted  only  by  the  ri- 
sing sun.  Even  when  the  motion  of  the  vessel  interfered 
with  our  promenade,  forming  a  snug  circle  under  the 
lee,  we  beguiled  many  an  evv^niug  with  those  gamesome 
trifles,  so  accordant  with  the  Ilalian  humor  and  vivacity. 
Two  of  these  sports,  I  remember,  were  prolific  occasions 
of  mirth.  The  president  appoints  to  each  of  the  party  a 
procuratore,  or  advocate,  and  then  proposes  certain  que- 
ries or  remarks  to  the  different  individuals.  It  is  a  law 
of  the  game,  that  no  one  shall  reply,  except  through  his 
advocate.  But  as  the  conversation  becomes  animated, 
it  is  more  and  more  difficult  to  observe  the  rule ;  many 
are  taken  off  their  guard  by  the  ingenuity  of  the  president, 
and  commit  themselves  by  a  gratuitous  reply,  or  neglect 
of  their  clients,  and  are  accordingly  obliged  to  pay  a  for- 
feit. Another  is  called  dressing  the  bride.  Th(3  presi- 
dent assigns  to  ail  some  profession  or  trade,  and  after  a 
preliminary  harangue,  which  affords  abundant  opportuni. 
ty  for  the  display  of  wit,  calls  upon  his  hearers  to  make  a 
contribution  to  the  bridal  vestments,  appropriate  to  their 

7* 


78  LOVE    IN    A    LAZZARET. 

several  occupations.  As  these  are  any  thing  but  adapted 
to  furnish  such  materials,  the  gifts  are  incongruous  in  the 
extreme;  and  the  grotesque  combination  of  apparel,  thus 
united  upon  a  single  person,  is  irresistibly  ludicrous. 
The  point  of  the  game  is,  to  keep  from  laughing,  which, 
from  the  ridiculous  images  and  odd  associations  present- 
ed to  the  fancy,  at  the  summing  up  of  the  bridal  adorn- 
ments, is  next  to  impossible.  The  consequence  is,  a 
series  of  penances,  which,  by  the  ready  invention  of 
the  leader,  who  is  generally  selected  for  his  quick  parts, 
in  their  turn  augment  the  fun  to  which  this  curious  game 
gives  birth. 

On  arriving  at  our  destination,  we  were  condemned 
to  perform  a  quarantine  of  fourteen  days,  according  to 
the  absurd  practice  but  too  prevalent  in  Mediterranean 
ports.  Seldom,  however,  are  such  annunciations  so 
complacently  received  by  voyagers  wearied  with  the  con- 
finement of  ship-board,  and  eager  for  the  freedom  and  va- 
riety of  the  shore.  In  spite  of  the  exclamations  of  disap- 
pointment which  were  uttered,  it  was  easy  to  trace  a  cer- 
tain contentment  on  many  of  the  countenances  of  the 
group,  the  very  reverse  of  that  expression  with  which  the 
unwilling  prisoner  surrenders  himself  to  the  pains  of  du- 
rance. The  truth  was,  that  for  several  days  the  inter- 
course of  some  of  the  younger  of  our  party  had  been  verg- 
ing upon  something  more  interesting  than  mere  acquaint- 
ance. Angelica  had  fairly  charmed  more  than  one  of  the 
youthful  spirits  on  board  ;  and  there  was  an  evident  unwil. 
lingness  on  their  part  to  resign  the  contest,  just  as  it  had 
reached  a  significant  point  of  interest.     Being  fond  of 


LOVE  IN    A    LAZZARET.  79 

acting  the  spectator,  I  had  discovered  a  fund  of  quiet 
amusement  in  observing  the  little  drama  which  was  en- 
acting, and  nothing*  diverted  me  more  than  the  apparent 
perfect  unconsciousness  of  the  actors  that  their  by-play 
could  be  noted,  and  its  motives  discerned.  My  sympa- 
thies were  naturally  most  warmly  enlisted  in  behalf  of 
poor  Delano,  notwithstanding  that,  after  exhibiting  the 
most  incontestible  symptoms  of  love,  he  had  the  assu- 
rance to  affect  anger  toward  me,  because  I  detected  mean- 
ing  in  his  assiduous  attentions  to  the  little  syren. 

The  place  of  our  confinement  consisted  of  a  paved 
square,  or  rather  oblong,  surrounded  with  stone  buildings. 
Within  the  narrow  limits  of  this  court,  were  continually 
moving  to  and  fro  the  occupants  of  the  adjacent  rooms, 
stepping  about  with  the  utmost  caution,  now  and  then 
starting  at  the  approach  of  some  fellow-prisoner,  and 
crying  largo !  as  the  fear  of  contact  suggested  an  indefi- 
nite prolongation  of  their  imprisonment.  Occasionally 
old  acquaintances  would  chance  to  meet,  and  in  the  joy 
of  mutual  recognition,  forget  their  situation,  hasten  to- 
ward each  with  extended  hands,  and  perhaps  be  prevented 
from  embracing  only  by  the  descending  staff*  of  the  watch- 
ful guard.  It  was  diverting  to  watch  these  manceuvres, 
through  our  grated  windows  ;  and  every  evening  we  failed 
not  to  be  amused  at  the  in-gathering,  when  the  chief  senti- 
nel, armed  with  a  long  bamboo,  made  the  circuit  of  the 
yards,  and  having  collected  us,  often  with  no  little  diffi- 
culty, like  so  many  stray  sheep,  ushered  us  with  as  much 
gravity  as  our  sarcasms  would  permit,  to  our  several 
quarters,  and  locked  us  up  for  the  night.     The  variety  of 


80  LOVE    IN    A    LAZZARET. 

nations  and  individuals  thus  congregated  within  such 
narrow  bounds,  was  another  cause  of  diversion.  Opposite 
our  rooms,  a  celebrated  prima  donna  sat  all  day  at  her 
embroidery,  singing,  sotto  voce,  the  most  familiar  opera 
airs.  Over  the  fence  of  the  adjoining  court,  for  hours  in 
the  afternoon,  leaned  a  Spanish  cavalier,  one  of  the  adhe- 
rents of  Don  Carlos,  whom  misfortunes  had  driven  into 
exile.  A  silent  figure,  in  a  Greek  dress,  lounged  at  the 
door  beneath  us,  and  at  the  extremity  of  the  court,  a  Turk 
sat  all  the  morning,  in  grave  contemplation.  With  this 
personai!,e  we  soon  opened  a  parley  in  Italian,  and  I  was 
fond  of  eliciting  his  ideas  and  marking  his  habits.  He 
certainly  deserved  to  be  ranked  among  nature's  philoso- 
phers.  After  breakfapt,  he  regularly  locked  the  door  upon 
his  wives,  and  took  his  station  Uj)on  the  stone  seat,  where, 
hour  after  hour,  he  would  maintain  so  motionless  a  position, 
as  to  wear  the  semblance  of  an  image  in  Eastern  costume. 
His  face  was  finely  formed,  and  its  serious  aspect  and  dark 
mustaches  were  relieved  by  a  quiet  meekness  of  manner. 
He  appeared  to  consider  himself  the  passive 'creature  of  a 
higher  power,  and  deemed  it  the  part  of  true  wisdom  to 
fulfil  the  requisite  functions  of  nature,  and,  for  the  rest, 
take  things  as  they  came,  nor  attempt  to  stem  the  tide  of 
fate,  except  by  imperturbable  gravity,  and  perpetual  smok- 
ing. He  assured  me  that  he  considered  this  a  beautiful 
world,  but  the  Franks  (as  he  called  all  Europeans,)  made 
a  vile  place  of  it,  by  their  wicked  customs  and  silly  bustle. 
According  to  his  theory,  the  way  to  enjoy  life,  was  to  go 
through  its  appointed  offices  with  tranquil  dignity,  make  no 
exertion  that  could  possibly  be  avoided,  and  repose  quies- 


LOVE    IN  A    LAZZARET.  81 

cent  upon  the  decrees  of  destiny.  And  yet  Mustapha  was 
not  without  his  moral  creed  ;  and  I  have  seldom  known  one 
revert  to  such  requisitions  with  more  sincere  reverence,  or 
follow  their  dictates  with  resolution  so  apparently  invinci- 
ble. *  There  is  but  one  difference/  said  he,  <in  our  reli- 
gion ;  the  Supreme  Being  whom  you  designate  as  Deo,  I 
call  Allah.  We  take  unto  ourselves  four  wives,  and  we  do 
so  to  make  sure  of  the  blessing  for  which  you  pray — not  to 
be  led  into  temptation.'  Of  all  vices,  he  appeared  to  re- 
gard intemperance  with  the  greatest  disgust,  and  was  evi- 
dently much  pained  to  see  the  ladies  of  our  party  promena- 
ding the  court  unveiled.  '  Are  your  wives  beautiful  V  I 
inquired.  '  In  my  view,'  he  replied,  <  they  are  lovely,  and 
that  is  sufficient.'  I  asked  him  if  they  resembled  any  of 
the  ladies  who  frequented  the  walk.  '  it  wonld  be  a  sin,' 
he  answered,  '  for  me  to  gaze  at  them,  and  never  having 
done  so,  I  cannot  judge.'  In  answer  to  my  request 
that  he  would  afford  me  an  opportunity  of  forming  my 
own  opinion,  by  allowing  me  a  sight  of  his  wives. 
'Signer,'  he  said,  with  much  solemnity,  '  when  a  Frank 
has  once  looked  upon  one  of  our  women,  she  is  no 
longer  fit  to  be  the  wife  of  a  Turk.'  And  he  appears  to 
have  acted  strictly  upon  this  principle,  for  when  the  c«s- 
tode  abruptly  entered  his  room,  as  they  were  all  seated  at 
breakfast,  Mustapha  suddenly  caught  up  the  coverlid  from 
the  bed,  and  threw  it  over  their  heads. 

There  is  a  law  in  physics,  called  the  attraction  of  cohe- 
sion, by  which  the  separate  particles  composing  a  body 
are  kept  together,  till  a  more  powerful  agency  draws  them 
into  greater  masses.     Upon  somewhat  such  a  principle,  I 


82  LOVE    IN  A    LAZZARET. 

suppose  it  was,  that  the  parties  convened  in  the  Lazzaret, 
darting  from  one  another  in  zig-zag  lines,  like  insects 
on  the  surface  of  a  pool,  were  brought  into  more  intimate 
companionship,  from  being  denied  association  with  those 
around,  except  at  a  respectable  distance,  and  under  the 
strictest  surveillance.  Our  company,  at  least,  were  soon 
established  on  the  intimate  terms  of  a  family,  and  the  in- 
different observer  could  scarcely  have  augured  from  ap- 
pearances, that  we  were  but  a  knot  of  strangers,  brought 
together  by  the  vicissitudes  of  travelling.  And  now 
the  spirit  of  gallantry  began  to  exhibit  itself  anew; 
in  the  Neapolitan  with  passi^ate  extravagance,  in  the 
Frenchman  with  studied  courtesies,  and  in  ihe  Yankee 
with  quiet  earnestness.  At  dinner,  the  first  day,  the  lat- 
ter took  care  to  keep  in  the  back  ground,  till  most  of  the 
party  had  selected  seats,  and  then,  seemingly  by  the  mer- 
est accident,  glided  among  the  ladies,  and  secured  a  post 
between  the  two  younger  sisters.  This  successful 
manoeuvre  so  offended  the  Englishman,  that  he  retired 
from  the  field  in  high  dudgeon,  and  never  paid  any  far' 
ther  attention  to  the  fair  Italians  than  what  civility  required. 
The  remaining  aspirants  only  carried  on  the  contest 
more  warmly.  I  was  obliged  almost  momently  to  turn 
aside  to  conceal  an  irresistible  smile  at  their  lal^ored  po- 
liteness towards  each  other,  and  the  show  of  indiftVrence 
to  the  object  of  their  devoirs,  which  each  in  turn  assumed, 
when  slightly  discomfited.  Nor  could  I  wonder  at  the 
eagerness  of  the  pursuit,  as  I  beheld  that  lovely  creature 
seated  at  her  book,  or  work,  in  a  simple  but  tasteful  dress 
of  white,   and  watched  the  play   of   a  countenance   in 


LOVE    IN    A  LAZZARET.  83 

which  extreme  youth  and  modesty  were  blent  in  strangely 
sweet  contrast  with  the  repose  of  innocence,   the  vivid- 
ness of  talent,  and  beauty  so  rare  and  heart-touching.     I 
could   not,    too,  but  wonder  at    the   manner  in   which 
she  received  the  attention  of  her  admirers — a  manner  so 
amiable   as   to   disarm  jealousy,  and  so   impartial  as  to 
baffle  the  acutest  on-looker   who  strove  to  divine  her  real 
sentiments.     There  is   a  power  of  manner   and  expres- 
sion peculiar  to  women,  more   potent   and  variable  than 
any  attribute  vouchsafed  to  man  ;  and  were  it  not  so  of- 
ten despoiled  of  its  charm  by  affectation,  we  should  more 
frequently  feel  its  wonderful  capacity.     In  the  daughters 
ofsouthren  climes,  at  that  age  when   'existence  is  all  a 
feeling,  not  yet  shaped  into  a  thought,'   it  is  often  mani- 
fested in   singular  perfection,  and  never  have  I  seen  it 
more  so  than  in  Angelica.     It  was  a  lesson  in  the  art  of 
love,  worthy  of  Ovidius  himself,  to    mark  the  course  of 
the  rival  three.     Such  ingenious  tricks  to  secure  her  arm 
for  the  evening  walk;   such  eager  watching  to  obtain  the 
vacant   seat  at  her  side  ;  such   countless   expedients    to 
arouse  her  mirth,  amuse   her  with   anecdote,  or   interest 
her   in  conversation ;    and    such   inexpressible   triumph, 
when  her  eye  beamed  pleasantly  upon  the  successful  com- 
petitor !     The    Neapolitan   cast  burning  glances  of  pas- 
sion, whenever  he  could  meet  her  gaze  :   quoted  Petrarch, 
and  soothed  his  hopeless  moments  by  dark  looks,  intend- 
ed  to  alarm  his  brother   gallants,  and  awaken   her   pity. 
The  Frenchman,  on  the  contrary,  was  all  smiles,  constant- 
ly stu  lying  his   toilet  and   attitude,  and  laboring,  by  the 
most  graceful  artifices,  to  fascinate  the  fancy  of  his  lady- 


84  LOVE    IN    A    LAZZARET. 

love.  The  Yankee  evinced  his  admiration  by  an  unas- 
suming but  unvarying  devotion.  If  Angelica  dropped 
her  fan,  he  was  ever  the  one  to  restore  it ;  was  the  evening 
chill,  he  always  thought  of  her  shawl,  and  often  his  dinner 
grew  cold  upon  his  neglected  plate,  while  he  was  attend- 
ing to  her  wants.  One  day  her  album  was  circulated. 
Don  Carlo,  the  Neapolitan,  wrote  a  page  of  glowing  pro- 
testations, asserting  his  inextinguishable  love.  Monsieur 
Jacques,  in  the  neatest  chirography,  declared  that  the  re- 
cent voyage  had  been  the  happiest  of  his  life,  and  his  pre- 
sent confinement  more  delightful  than  mountain  liberty, 
in  the  company  of  so  perfect  a  nymph.  Delano  simply 
.declared,  that  the  sweet  virtues  of  Angelica  sanctified  her 
beauty  to  his  memory  and  heart. 

There  are  some  excellent  creatures  in  this  world, 
whose  lives  seem  to  conduce  to  every  body's  happiness 
but  their  own.  Such  an  one  was  the  donna  Paolina. 
Affable  and  engaging,  and  with  a  clear  and  cultivated 
mind,  she  lacked  the  personal  loveliness  of  her  sisters, 
and  yet  rejoiced  in  it  as  if  it  were  her  own.  "No  one  could 
remain  long  in  the  society  of  the  two,  without  perceiving 
that  the  confidence  between  them  was  perfect,  and  found- 
ed on  that  mutual  adaptation  which  we  but  occasionally 
behold,  even  in  the  characters  of  those  allied  by  the  ties 
of  a  common  parentage.  To  this  kind-hearted  girl  I  dis- 
covered that  the  lovers  had  separately  applied  for  counsel 
and  support  in  the  prosecution  of  their  suits.  Don  Carlo 
begged  her  to  warn  her  sister  against  the  advances  of  the 
Frenchman,  as  he  knew  him  to  be  a  thorough  hypocrite  ; 
and  Monsieur  Jacques  returned  the  compliment,  by  as- 


LOVE    IN    A    LAZZARET.  85 

suring  her  that  the  Neapolitan  was  by  no  means  sufficient- 
ly refined  and  accomplished  to  be  the  companion  of  so 
delicate  a  creature  as  Angelica.     Young  Jonathan,  with 
a  more  manly  policy,  so  won  the  esteem  of  Paolina,  by 
dwelling  upon  the   excellencies  of  her  sister,  that  she  be- 
came his  unwavering  advocate.     I  confess  that  as  the  ap- 
pointed period  of  durance  drew  to  a  close,  I  began  to  feel 
anxious  as  to  the  result  of  all  this   dallying  with  the  ten- 
der passion.     I  saw  that  Monsieur  was  essentially  selfish 
in  his  suit,  and  that  vanity  was  its  basis.     It  was  evident 
that  the  Neapolitan  was  stimulated  by  one  of  those  ardent 
and  sudden  partialities,  which   are  as   capricious  as  the 
flashes  of  a  volcano,  and  often  as  temporary.     In  truth, 
there  was  not  enough  of  the  spirit  of  sacrifice,  or  vital  at- 
tachment, in  their  love,  to   warrant  the   happiness  of  the 
gentle  being  whose  outward  charms  alone  had  captivated 
their  senses.     Delano,  I  knew,  was  sincere,  and  my  fears 
were,  that  his  future  peace   was  involved  in  the  result. 
At  length  the  last  evening  of  our  quarantine  had  arrived. 
Mons.  Jacques  had  played  over,  as  usual,  all  her  favorite 
airs  on  his  guitar,  and  Carlo  had  just  fervently  recited  a 
glowing  passage  from  some  Italian  poet,  descriptive  of  a 
lover's  despair,  when  sunset,  playing  through  the  bars  of 
our  window,  reminded  us  that  the  cool  hour  of  the  day 
was  at  handf  when  it  was  our  custom  to  walk  in  the  out- 
er court.     As  we   went  forth,  there  was  that  eloquently 
sad  silence,  with  which  even  the  most  thoughtless  engage 
in  an  habitual  employment  for  the  last  time.     No  one 
anticipated  me   in  securing  the   companionship   of  the 
sweet  child  of  nature,  whose  beauty  and  gentleness  had 

8 


86  LOVE    IN   A    LAZZARET. 

brightened  to  us  all,  so  many  days  of  pilgrimage  and  con 
finement ;  and  I  determined  to  improve  it,  by  ascertaining 
if  possible,  the  probable  snccess  of  my  poor  friend.  1 
spoke  of  the  many  pleasant  hours  we  had  passed  together, 
of  that  social  sympathy  which  had  cheered  and  consoled, 
and  asked  her  if  even  those  narrow  walls  would  not  be 
left  with  regret.  ^  Consider,'  said  I,  *  you  will  no  more 
be  charmed  with  the  exquisite  elegance  of  Monsieur 
Jacques ' — she  looked  up  to  see  if  I  really  thought  her 
capable  of  being  interested  by  such  conventional  graces — 
'  or  be  enlivened,'  I  continued,  'by  the  enthusiastic  con- 
verse of  Don  Carlo ' — she  smiled — '  or  know,'  I  added, 
with  a  more  serious  and  searching  glance,  '  the  affection- 
ate and  gifted  society  of  Delano  ' — a  tear  filled  her  eye, 
but  the  smile  assumed  a  brighter  meaning.  I  looked  up, 
and  he  was  before  us,  gazing  from  one  to  the  other,  with 
an  expression  of  joyful  inquiry,  which  flashed  the  happiest 
conviction  on  my  mind.  The  passionate  Neapolitan  had 
flattered,  and  the  genteel  Frenchman  had  amused,  but  the 
faithful  Yankee  had  won  the  heart  of  Angelica  De  Falco. 


FLORENCE    REVISITED. 


"  Florence,  beneath  the  sun 
Of  cities,  fairest  one." 

}heUei/. 

We  had  been  riding  all  night  along  the  Arno,  whose 
turgid  waters  were  shrunk  to  half  their  usual  dimensions, 
by  the  intense  heat  of  midsummer.  Dawn  was  gradually 
unveiling  the  heavens,  and  spreading  a  soft,  silvery  light 
over  the  landscape,  as  we  drew  near  the  termination  of 
our  journey.  The  vines,  by  the  road-side,  stirred  cheer- 
fully in  the  morning  breeze,  and  as  one  after  another  of 
their  broad  leaves  was  uplifted,  the  mossy  boughs  of  the 
mulberry. trees  upon  which  they  are  festooned,  were  mo- 
mentarily revealed,  brightened  by  the  grateful  dew.  The 
full  grain  beneath  them,  bowed  by  its  own  weight,  glisten- 
ed with  the  same  moisture,  condensed  in  chrystals  upon 
its  bended  tops  ;  and  to  vary  the  rich  carpet  so  lavishly 
spread  over  the  earth,  a  patch  of  lupens  or  artichokes,  oc- 
casionally appeared,  ftom  amid  which,  rose  the  low,  grey 
olive,  or  thin  poplar  of  Tuscany.     Sometimes  a  few  dwarf. 


88 


TLORENCE   EEVISITED. 


ed  pines  indicated  the  site  of  ancient  woods,  long  since 
extirpated  by  tlie  genius  of  Agriculture,  or  some  remnant 
of  an  ancient  wall  marked  the  old  feudal' boundaries  of 
the  landholders.  A  still  more  interesting  memorial  of 
those  times  exists  farther  back,  in  the  shape  of  a  pictures- 
que tower,  celebrated  on  account  of  its  having  been  taken 
by  a  curious  stratagem.  Lights  were  appended  to  the 
horns  of  a  flock  of  goats,  which,  in  the  night,  appeared 
like  an  army,  and  frightened  away  the  besieged.  Early 
as  was  the  hour,  a  large  group  of  poor  women,  spinning 
flax,  were  awaiting  at  the  gate  of  a  villa,  the  customary 
alms  of  its  proprietor  ;  and  often  a  bend  in  the  river 
brought  us  in  view  of  several  men  dragging  a  heavily 
laden  barge  through  its  narrow  channel.  As  the  day 
broke,  we  came  in  sight  of  Florence.  The  mighty  dome 
of  its  cathedral — that  noble  monument  of  the  genius  of 
Brunelleschi,  and  the  graceful  tower  by  its  side,  rose  froiii 
the  mass  of  dense  buildings,  like  a  warrior  of  the  middle 
ages,  and  a  fair  devotee  of  some  more  peaceful  epoch, 
"standing  in  the  centre,  to  guard  and  hallow  the  city.  Far 
around  the  walls,  spread  the  hills  with  a  fertile  beaut)  and 
protecting  grace,  and  through  the  midst  wound  the  Arno, 
gleaming  in  the  morning  sun.  It  is  a  curious  feeling — 
that  with  which  we  revisit  an  Italian  city,  familiar  and 
endeared  to  our  memory.  There  are  none  of  those  strik- 
ing local  changes,  which  startle  the  absentee  on  his  return 
to  the  New  World.  The  outward  scene  is  the  same  ; 
but  what  revolutions  may  not  his  own  feelings  have  un- 
dergone,  since  he  last  beheld  it!  How  may  experience 
have  subdued  enthusiasm,  and  suffering  chastened  hope  ! 


FLORENCE  REVISITED.  89 

Will  the  solemn  beauty  of  the  church  wherein  he  was  wont 
to  lose  himself  in  holy  musing,  beguile  him,  as  of  old,  to 
meditative  joy  ?  Will  the  picture  before  which  he  so  often 
stood,  wrapt  in  admiration,  awaken  his  heart  as  before? 
Will  the  calm  beauty  of  the  favorite  statue  once  more 
soothe  his  impatient  soul  ?  Will  the  rich  and  moving 
strain  for  which  he  has  so  long  thirsted,  ever  thrill  as 
v/hen  it  first  fell  upon  his  ear?  And  Uhe  old,  familiar 
faces' — have  a  few  years  passed  them  by  untouched  ?  In 
such  a  reverie  I  went  forth  to  revive  the  associations  of 
Florence.  The  dreamy  atmosphere  of  a  warm  and  cloudy 
day  accorded  with  the  pensive  delight  -svith  which  I  re- 
traced scenes  unexpectedly  revisited.  Many  botanical 
specimens  were  added  to  the  unrivalled  wax  collection  at 
the  museum,  and  several  new  tables,  bright  with  chalce- 
dony, amethyst  and  pearl,  were  visible  at  the  Pieira  dura 
manufactory.  The  old  priest,  whose  serene  temper  seem- 
ed a  charm  against  the  encroachments  of  ago,  had  lost 
something  of  his  rotundity  of  visage,  and  his  hair  was 
blanched  to  a  more  snowy  whiteness.  A  shade  of  care 
was  evident  upon  the  brow  of  the  man  of  pleasure,  and  his 
reckless  air  and  contracted  establishment  most  strikingly 
indicated  the  reduced  state  of  his  resources.  The  flower- 
girl  moved  with  less  sprightliuess,  and  the  dazzling  beauty 
of  the  belle  was  subdued  to  the  calm  grace  of  womanhood. 
The  artist  whom  I  left  toiling  in  obscurity,  had  received 
the  reward  of  his  self  devotion  ;  fame  and  fortune  had 
crowned  his  labors.  The  beggar  at  the  corner  looked  as 
unchanged  as  a  picture,  but  his  moan  of  supplication  had 
.sunk  a  key  lower.     The  waiter  at  the  cajj'e  mamtamed 

8* 


90  FLORENCE  REVISITED. 

his  accustomed  swagger,  and  promotion  had  cooled  the 
earnest  promptitude  which  distinguished  his  noviciate. 
Three  new  chain  bridges  span  Arno  ;  being  painted 
white,  and  supported  by  massive  pillars  of  granite,  sur- 
mounted by  marble  sphinxes,  their  appearance  is  very 
pleasing.  The  one  below  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  serves  as 
a  fine  foreground  object  in  the  landscape  formed  by  the 
adjacent  hills  ;  and  the  other  embellishes  the  vista  through 
which  we  gaze  down  the  river  to  the  far-off  mountains 
and  woods  of  the  Cascine.  Utilitarianism  is  rapidly  pe- 
netrating even  into  Tuscany.  Demidorff's  elegant  villa 
is  transformed  into  a  silk  manufactory  ;  and  a  railroad  is 
projected  between  Florence  and  Leghorn.  With  the 
same  stolid  dignity  rose  the  massive  walls  of  the  Pitti 
and  Strozzi  palaces,  wearing  as  undaunted  an  aspect  as 
when  the  standards  of  the  ancient  factions  floated  from 
the  iron  rings  still  riveted  to  their  walls.  The  lofty  firs 
and  oaks  of  the  public  walk  waved  in  undiminished  lux- 
uriance ;  and  the  pheasants  flitted  as  lightly  over  the  lawn. 
The  curious  tower  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  was  relieved 
with  the  same  vivid  outline  in  the  twilight ;  ajid  the  crowd 
pi-essed  as  confusedly  through  the  narrow  limits  of  the 
Via  Calziole.  The  throng  promenade  as  gaily  as  ever 
along  the  river- side,  on  the  evening  of  a  festival, — the 
stately  peasant-girl,  with  her  finely- wrought  hat — the 
strutting  footman — the  dark-robed  priest — the  cheerful 
stranger,  and  the  loitering  artist.  The  street-musicians 
gather  little  audiences  as  formerly  ;  and  the^ evening  bells 
invade  the  air  with  their  wonted  chime. 

The  most  interesting  of  Greeuough's  recent  produc- 


FLORENCE  REVISITED,  91 

tions,  is  an  ideal  female  head — Helolse,  illustrative  of 
Pope's  well-known  lines  : — 

'•  Dear,  fatal  name  !  rest  ever  unrevealed 
Nor  pass  these  lips  in  holy  silence  sealed  ; 
Hide  it,  my  heart,  within  that  close  disguise 
Where,  join'd  with  God's,  his  loved  idea  Ues." 

Another  American  sculptor  has  recently  taken  up  his 
residence  in  Florence,  whose  labors  seem  destined  to 
reflect  great  honor  upon  his  country.  Hiram  Powers  is 
one  of  those  artists  whose  vocation  is  ordained  by  native 
endowments.  Amid  the  vicissitudes  of  his  early  life,  the 
faculty,  so  strong  within  him,  found  but  occasional  and 
limited  development :  yet  was  it  never  wholly  dortnant. 
Powers  derives  his  principles  of  art  directly  from  the  on- 
ly legitimrite  source — Nature.  His  recent  busts  are  in- 
stinct with  life  and  reality.  They  combine  the  utmost 
fidelity  in  detail  with  the  best  general  effect.  They 
abound  in  expression  and  truth.  His  success  in  this  de- 
partment, has  given  occasion  to  so  many  engagements 
for  busts,  that  time  has  scarcely  been  afforded  him  for 
any  enterprize  of  a  purely  ideal  character.  He  is  now 
about  to  embody  a  fine  conception  from  Gesner's  Death 
of  Abel.  He  intends  making  a  statue  of  Eve  at  the  mo- 
ment when  after  her  expulsion  from  Paradise,  the  sight  of 
a  dead  bird  first  revealed  to  her  the  nature  of  death.  ^'It 
is  I !  It  is  I !  Unhappy  that  I  am,  who  have  brought  mis- 
ery and  grief  on  every  creature !  For  my  sin,  these  pretty, 
harmless  animals  are  punished."  Her  tears  redoubled. 
"What  an  event!  How  stiff  and  cold  it  is  I  It  has 
neither  voice  nor  motion  ;  its  joints   no  longer  bend  ; 


92  FLORENCE    REVISITED. 

its   limbs    refuse   their    office.      Speak   Adam,   is    this 
death?' 

Florence   may  appear,  at  a  casual  view,  comparatively 
deficient  in  local   associations  ;  yet  few  cities  are  more 
impressed  by  the  facts  of  their  history.     It  was  during 
the  middle  ages  that  it  rose  to  power,  and  that  violent 
era  has  left   its  memorials  behind.     The  architecture   is 
more   remarkable  for   strength   than  elegance,   and    its 
beauty  is  that  of  simplicity  and  dignity.     Of  (his,  the 
Pitti  and    Strozzi   palaces    are    striking   examples.     In 
whatever  direction  one  wanders,  memorials  of  departed 
ages  meet  the  view,  less  numerous  and  imposing  than  at 
Rome,  but  still  sufficiently  so  to  awaken  the  sweet  though 
melancholy  charm  of  antiquity.     Every  day,  in  walking 
to   the  Cascine,  the   stranger  passes   the  house    where 
Amerigo  Vespuccio  was  born  ;    and  as  he  glances  at  the 
hospital  of  Santa  Maria  Nuova,  he  remembers  that  it 
was  founded  by  the   father  of  Dante's  Beatrice.     The 
sight  of  Galileo's  tower,  near  the  Homan  gate,  recalls 
that  scene  of  deep,  moral  and  dramatic  interest,  when 
the   philosopher,  having,  on  his  knees,  renounced  his 
theory  of  the  earth's  motion,  before  the  tribunal  of  Rome, 
suddenly  sprung  to  his  feet  and  exclaimed,  «'£  pur  si 
muove  /" — « and  yet  it  moves.'     The  villa  of  Boccacio,  in 
the  environs,  awakens  the  awful  associations  of  the  plague 
as  well  as  the  beauty  of  the  Decameron  ;   and  a  stroll 
around  the  walls,  by  bringing  in  view  the  old  fortifications, 
wlil  revive  some  of  the  scenes  of  the  celebrated  siege  of 
eleven  months,  in  1530.     The  heroism  exhibited  by  the 
Florentines  at  this  period  of  privation  and  suffering,  ren- 


FLOREr^CE    REVISITED.  93 

ders  it  one  of  the  brightest  pages  of  their  annals.  Many  a 
maiden  cast  herself  from  the  balcony  to  escape  the  brutal 
soldiery  ;  and  one  woman  who  had  been  forcibly  carried 
away  by  an  officer,  stole  from  the  camp  at  night,  collected 
all  his  spoils,  and  mounting  his  horse,  rode  back  to  Florence, 
with  a  new  dowry  foi  her  husband.  Let  the  stranger 
who  would  excite  the  local  associations  of  the  Tuscan 
capital,  stroll  into  the  Piazza  Grand  Duca  on  a  spring 
morning.  Yonder  is  a  crowd  of  applicants  at  the  grated 
windows  of  the  post  office  ;  here  a  line  of  venders,  vocife- 
rating the  price  of  their  paltry  wares  ;  and  there  a  score 
of  porters  at  work  about  the  custom-house.  In  the 
centre  is  an  eloquent  quack,  mounted  upon  an  open 
barouche,  and  surrounded  by  vials,  plasters  and  surgical 
instruments,  waving  a  long  string  of  certificates,  and  loud- 
ly expounding  the  virtues  of  his  specifics  to  a  group  of 
gaping  peasants.  At  the  portal  of  yonder  palace,  an 
English  equipage  is  standing,  while  its  master  is  negotia- 
ting with  Fenzi,  the  banker,  within.  People  are  passing 
and  re-passing  through  the  spacious  area,  or  chatting  in 
small  groups.  In  the  midst  is  the  bronze,  equestrian 
statue  of  Cosmo,  and  near  it,  the  fountain  exhibiting  a 
colossal  figure  of  Neptune.  This  remarkable  public 
square  is  not  less  striking  as  a  witness  of  ihe  past  than 
from  its  present  interest.  The  irregular  design  of  the 
Palazzo  Veccho,  is  attributed  to  the  public  animosities 
of  the  period  of  its  erection  ;  and  the  open  space  which 
now  constitutes  the  Piazza,  was  formed  by  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  houses  of  the  Uberti  family,  and  others  of  the 
same  faction,  that  the  palace  of  the   Priors  might  not 


94  FLORENCE    REVISITED. 

stand  on  what  was  deemed  accursed  ground.  Another 
scene  associated  with  one  of  the  most  tragic  events  in 
tlie  history  of  Florence,  is  the  Duomo — that  huge  pile  so 
richly  encrusted  with  black  and  white  marble,  which 
was  commenced  towards  the  close  of  the  twelfth  century. 
As  one,  in  any  degree  susceptible  to  the  influence  of 
superstition,  wanders,  at  twilight,  through  the  vast  and 
dusky  precincts  of  this  -cathedral,  vague  and  startling 
fancies  will  often  throng  upon  his  mind.  As  he  slowly 
paces  the  marble  floor  towards  the  main  altar,  perhaps 
some  mendicant  glides  from  a  dark  recess,  with  a  low 
moan  of  entreaty,  or  an  aged  female  form,  bowed  at  one 
of  the  shrines,  is  dimly  descried  in  the  gloom.  The 
only  light  streams  through  the  lofty  and  richly-painted 
windows.  The  few  busts  of  the  illustrious  of  by-gone 
days,  are  scarcely  discernible ;  the  letters  on  the  sepul- 
chral tablets  are  blurred  in  the  twilight,  and  the  dust- 
covered  banners,  trophies  of  valor  displayed  in  the  Holy 
Land,  hang  in  shadowy  folds.  At  that  pensive  hour,  in 
the  solitude  of  so^extensive  a  building,  surrounded  by 
the  symbols  of  Death  and  Religion,  how  vividly  rises  to 
the  imagination  the  sanguinary  deed  perpetrated  before 
that  altar  !  The  conspiracy  of  the  Pazzi  forms  the  sub- 
ject  of  one  of  Alfieri's  tragedies  ;  and  a  very  spirited 
illustration  of  one  of  the  scenes  was  recently  exhibited  in 
Florence,  the  production  of  a  promising  young  artist.  It 
represents  the  wife  of  Francesco  kneeling  at  his  feet  and 
endeavoring  to  prevent  his  leaving  the  house  at  the  ap- 
pointed signal.  At  the  head  of  the  plot  was  Sixtus  IV., 
whose    principal    agent,    Salviati,    concerted    with    the 


FLORENCE    REVISITED.  95 

Pazzi  to  execute  their  purpose  at  a  dinner  given  by 
Lorenzo  de  Medici,  at  Fiesole ;  but  in  consequence  of 
his  brother's  absence,  the  scene  of  action  was  transferred 
to  the  church.  On  the  26th  of  April,  1478,  the  day 
appointed,  it  appears  the  service  commenced  without  the 
presence  of  Guliano  de  Medici.  Francesco  Pazzi  and 
Bandini  went  in  seaich  of  him.  They  not  only  accom- 
panied him  in  the  most  friendly  manner  to  the  cathedral, 
but  in  order  to  ascertain  if  he  wore  concealed  weapons, 
threw  their  arms  caressingly  about  him  as  they  walked, 
and  took  their  places  by  his  side,  before  the  altar.  When 
the  bell  rung — the  signal  agreed  upon,  and  the  priest 
raised  the  consecrated  wafer,  as  the  people  bent  their 
heads  before  it,  Bandini  plunged  a  dagger  into  the 
breast  of  Giuliano.  Francesco  Pazzi  then  rushed  upon 
him  and  stabbed  him  in  many  places,  with  such  fury 
that  he  wounded  himself  in  the  struggle.  Lorenzo  de- 
fended himself  successfully  against  the  priest  who  was 
to  have  taken  his  life,  and  received  but  a  slight  wound. 
His  friends  rallied  around  him,  and  they  retreated  to  the 
sacristy,  where  one  of  the  young  men,  thinking  the 
weapon  which  had  injured  Lorenzo  might  have  been 
poisoned,  sucked  the  wound.  The  conspirators  having 
so  completely  failed,  were  soon  identified,  and  the 
leaders  executed,  while  Lorenzo's  escape  was  hailed  with 
acclamations  by  the  people.  On  a  calm,  summer  night, 
as  one  walks  up  the  deserted  and  spacious  area  of  the 
Via  Larga,  he  may  watch  the  moonbeams  as  they  play 
upon  the  beautiful  cornice  of  the  Palazzo  Ricardi,  and  recall, 
as  a  contrast  to  the  peaceful  scene,  another  bloody  deed 


96  FLORENCE    REVISITED. 

in  the  chronicles  of  the  house  of  Medici.  It  was  to  this 
princely  dwelling  that  the  nephew  of  Allessandro,  first 
Duke  of  Florence,  commonly  called  Lorenzino,  ambi- 
tious of  power,  lured  his  profligate  uncle,  and  having  in- 
vited him  to  repose,  and  placed  his  sword  with  the  belt 
twisted  firmly  round  the  hilt,  upon  the  bolster,  stole  out 
and  brought  a  bravo  to  dispatch  him.  The  assassination, 
however,  proved  difficult,  and  the  treacherous  relative  was 
obliged,  personally,  to  join  in  the  butchery.  He  dipped 
his  finger  in  the  blood  of  his  kinsman,  and  wrote  upon 
the  wall  of  the  room,  the  line  from  Virgil — 

.  "  Vincit  Amor  Fatnse,  laudumque  immensa  cupido." 

Although  the  presumptive  heir  of  Alessandro,  he  fled,  and 
after  ten  years  of  exile,  fell,  himself,  beneath  an  assassin's 
dagger  at  Venice. 

Among  the  numerous  hills  of  the  Apppenine  range 
surrounding  Florence,  Fiesole  is  conspicuous  from  its 
picturesque  appearance.  It  is  surmounted  by  a  row  of 
cypresses,  and  upon  its  summit  stands  an  ancient  con- 
vent. From  the  green  and  shady  esplanade  before  this 
building,  is  obtainable  one  of  the  best  views  of  the  city 
and  its  environs ;  and  the  traveller  who  possesses  any 
taste  for  scenery  will  not  regret  his  three  miles  walk  from 
the  Porta  Pinta,  or  the  somewhat  precipitous  ascent  which 
brings  him  to  so  commanding  an  observatory.  Upon 
this  mountain  stood  a  celebrated  Etruscan  fortress.  It 
was  one  of  Cataline's  strong-holds  ;  and  the  traces  of  its 
walls  are  still  discernible.  From  this  spot  the  founders 
of  Florence  descended  to  the  borders  of  the  Arno,  and 


FLORENCE    REVISITED.  97 

there  established  their  dwellings.  Originally,  the  whole 
city  occupied  the  right  bank  of  the  river,  and  boasted 
but  one  bridge  outside  the  walls,  which  is  still  called 
Ponte  Vecchio.  It  is  believed  that  the  abundance  of 
lilies  and  other  flowers  (fiori)  which  flourished  there, 
gave  its  name  to  the  metropolis  of  Tuscany,  although  Cel- 
lini declares  it  to  have  been  derived  from  Florentius,  a 
celebrated  general.  It  is  remarkable  that  the  first  use  the 
people  made  of  arms,  was  to  turn  them  against  the^spot  of 
their  origin. 

The  republic  was  well  established  about  the  close  of  the 
twelfth  century.  The  population  were  early  devoted  to 
manufactures,  particularly  of  cloth.  ,  The  first  magis- 
trates were  denominated  consuls  ;  afterwards,  the  office 
of  mayor  was  instituted,  and  it  was  decreed  that  the  in- 
cumbent should  be  a  foreigner,  that  no  ties  of  relation- 
ship might  interfere  with  the  impartial  discharge  of  his 
duties.  Another  condition  was  attached  to  the  situation 
which  would  scarcely  be  deemed  expedient  in  our  own 
times — that  the  mayor  should  never  give  nor  accept  din- 
ners. Subsequently,  the  title  was  changed  to  that  of  gon- 
faliere,  or  standard-bearer,  whose  functions,  at  different 
times,  were  variously  modified.  Besides  the  consuls, 
there  were  priors  of  the  arts  and  trades,  senators — ten 
buonuomini,  etc.  The  Florentines  first  learned  the  art  of 
war  in  numerous  conflicts  with  feudal  lords,  who  made 
incursions  from  neighboring  castles  located  amid  the  fast- 
nesses of  the  mountains,  and  strongly  fortified.  A  civil 
feud,  however,  which  gave  birth  to  an  infinite  series  of 
long  and  bloody  animosities,  soon  succeeded  these  paltry 
9 


98  FLORENCE    REVISITED. 

and  irregular  enterprises.  This  fatal  discord  was  excifed 
by  female  beauty,  which  seems  to  have  been  one  of  the 
most  prolific  occasions  of  ancient  dissensions,  as  influ- 
ential,  in  those  troubled  times,  in  nerving  the  warrior,  as 
it  has  been,  in  every  age,  in  calling  forth  the  richest 
strains  of  the  bard.  The  youthful  head  of  the  wealthy 
and  powerful  family  of  Buondelmonte  had  promised  to 
marry  a  daughter  of  the  house  of  Amidei,  equally  renown- 
ed and  powerful.  The  charms  of  another  lady,  one  of 
the  Donati,  also  one  of  the  first  rank,  beguiled  the  accom. 
plished  cavalier  from  his  first  love  ;  and,  unmindful  of  for- 
mer vows,  he  married  the  object  of  his  new  attachment. 
The  family  of  the  deserted  bride  considered  their  dignity 
compromised  by  this  act,  and  on  Easter  Sunday,  while 
Boundelmonte,  dressed  in  white,  and  mounted  upon  a 
white  horse,  was  riding  from  the  other  side  of  the  Arno, 
towards  the  house  of  the  Amidei,  passing  over  the  old 
bridge,  they  made  an  attack  near  the  statue  of  Mars,  and 
killed  him.  This  murder  threw  the  whole  city  into  con- 
fusion, and  the  people,  almost  immediately,  were  divided 
into  two  parties.  The  citizens  barricaded  the  roads,  and 
fought  in  the  streets  and  squares,  and  from  the  houses  and 
turrets.  Soon  after  this  event,  ensued  the  political  warfare 
between  the  Guelphs,  and  Ghibelines,  the  former  attach- 
ing themselves  to  the  Buondelmonte,  and  the  latter,  to  the 
Uberti — the  most  powerful  family  of  the  party,  which  be- 
came its  head,  instead  of  the  Amedei.  The  people  con- 
stantly vacillating  between  interest  and  enmity,  alternately 
fought  and  made  truces,  till  a  quarrel  with  Pisa,  for  a  time, 
diverted  their  arms.     This  rival  colony  undertook  to  stop 


FLORENCE    REVISITED.  99 

the  goods  from  Florence,  as  they  came  down  the  river. 
They  were  not,  however,  so  good  fighters  on  land  as  at 
sea,  and  were  finally  defeated  by  the  Florentines,  at  Cas- 
tel  del  Bosco.  This  war  of  inroads,  however,  lasted  six 
years,  and  was,  at  length,  adjusted  by  a  cardinal.  The 
old,  intestine  controversy  was  soon  renewed  with  increased 
ardor,  and  when  the  Ghibelines  remained  masters  of  the 
city,  for  want  of  any  better  way  of  wreaking  vengeance 
upon  the  Guelphs,  they  razed  their  dwellings,  demolished 
numerous  towers,  and  even  made  a  barbarous  attempt  to 
destroy  the  temple  of  St.  John,  now  called  the  Baptistery, 
because  their  opponents  had  once  held  meetings  there. 
A  beautiful  tower  stood  at  the  commencement  of  the 
street  of  the  Adimari,  and  this  they  endeavored  to  make  fall 
upon  the  temple  by  placing  rafters  against  the  opposite 
part,  cutting  away  the  other  side,  and  then  setting  fire  to 
the  props.  Happily,  however,  the  tower  fell  in  another 
direction.  For  a  series  of  years,  the  arms  of  the  Floren- 
tines were  constantly  exercised,  with  various  success,  in 
wars  against  the  Pisans,  Lucchese,  Arentines,  etc.,  but, 
ever  and  anon,  this  original  and  fierce  civil  feud  usurped 
all  their  energies.  Its  history  is  one  of  the  remarkable 
evidences  of  the  spirit  of  that  age,  and  hereafter,  as  the 
sounds  of  warfare  and  violence  die  away  into  the  past, 
before  the  mild  influences  of  Christianity,  it  will  be  re- 
verted  to  by  the  philosopher  as  a  fertile  source  of  illustra- 
tion. Its  consequences  and  incidental  results  are  nu- 
merous and  interesting.  The  Ghibelines  were  generally 
triumphant  in  Florence.  In  1261,  when  Count  Guido 
Novella  was  elected  mayor,  in  order  to  introduce  his  peo- 


100  FLORENCE    REVISITED. 

pie  more  easily  from  Casentino,  into  the  city  and  palace, 
he  opened  a  new  gate  in  the  nearest  walls,  and  the  avenue 
leading  thence,  is  still  called  the  street  of  the  Ghibelines. 
In  the  annals  of  these  celebrated  factions,  we  find  now 
one,  and  now  another  invoking  foreign  aid.     Sometimes 
a  respite  occurs  of  so  long  a  continuance,  as  to  induce  a 
belief  thaj  the  demon  of  discord  is  at  length  laid  asleep, 
and  anon  it  breaks  forth  with  tenfold  fury.     At  one  mo- 
ment, the  Pope's  interposition  procures  peace,  and  the 
next,  some  incident,  trifling  in  itself,  suddenly  revives  the 
flame  of  party  rage.     After  a  solemn  reconciliation  had 
apparently  settled  the  dissension  at  Florence,  it  was  again 
renewed  in  Pistoia,  a  few  miles  off*.     A  certain  Ser  Can- 
celliere  of  that  city  was  the  father  of  a  very  numerous  fam- 
ilyy  the  progeny  of  two  wives,  both  of  whom  belonged  to 
noble  houses.     Between   the  descendants  of  these  rival 
mothers,  a  strong  jealousy  existed  ;  and  under  the  name 
of  Black  and  White  chancellors,  (Bianci  and  .Yen)  more 
than  a  hundred  individuals  were  included  in  the  quarrel, 
among  whom,  not  less  than  eighteen,  were  chevaliers  or 
knights  of  the  golden  spur.     Some  young  men  of  both 
parties,  having  quarrelled  over  their  wine,  one  of  the  Neri 
received   a  blow  from  Charles  Walfred,  of  the   opposite 
faction.    In  the  evening,  the  aggrieved  individual  waylaid 
the   brother  of  his   insulter,  and  having  beaten  him,  so 
mutilated   one    of  his   hands,   that  only  the    forefinger 
remained.     This  aggression  roused  an    universal  spir- 
it  of    resentment   on  the   part   of    the    Bianci.      The 
opposite    party   vainly    attempted  to  make  peace;    and 
the  inflictor  of  the  injury,  on  repairing  to  Walfred's  house. 


FLORENCE    REVISITED, 


101 


to  apologize,  was  seized  and  taken  into  the  stables,  when 
one  of  his  hands  was  cut  off  by  way  of  retaliation,  and  he 
v/as  sent  back  to  his  partisans.     This  act  rendered  all  fur- 
ther attempts  at  treaty  vain.     Thenceforth,   street-broils, 
of  the   fiercest  character,  were    of  constant  occurrence. 
Some  of  the  most  guilty  repaired  to  Florence,  and  there 
fomented  the  old  feud,  theBianci  inciting  the  Ghibelines, 
and  the  Neri  the  Guelphs.     In  1301,  Charles  of  Valois, 
invited  by  Boniface  VIII,  into  Italy,  secretly  concerted  with 
him  the  ruin   of  the  Bianci  party.     The   Neri  were  then 
dominant.     In   consequence  of  the  violence  committed 
under  Corso  Donati,  the  Pope  had  sent  one  of  his  cardi- 
nals to  Florence  to  bring  about    peace,   but  the  efforts  of 
the  prelate   were  vain.     On   Christmas  day,  the  son  of 
Corso  Donati,  being  on  horseback  in  the  square  of  Santa 
Croce,  and  seeing  Nicholas  of  the  Cerchia  family  pass  by, 
ran  after  him  out  of  one  of  the  gates.     A  contest  ensued, 
in  which  both  were  killed,  and,  in  consequence,  civil  war 
once  more  kindled.     At  length,  on  the  second  of  April, 
the  remainder  of  the  Bianci  party,   among  whom  were 
Dante  and  Petrucco  of  Parengo,  the  father  of  Petrarch, 
were  banished.      The    Neri  threw   fireworks  upon   the 
houses  and  shops  of  their  discomfitted  opponents,  near 
the   Mercato  Nuovo,  which,  taking  fire,   produced  exten- 
sive destruction,  and  reduced  many  to  poverty.     In  1310, 
the  New  German  Emperor,  Henry  Vil.,  prepared  to  de- 
scend into  Italy.     Many  cities  invited  him.     In  Tuscany, 
Pisa  and  Arrezzo,  alone  desired  his  arrival.     The  follow- 
ing year,  Dante,  in  behalf  of  the  Ghibeline  party,   wrote 
him,  earnestly,  to  come  down  upon  Florence.     This  letter 

9* 


102  FLORENCE    REVISITED. 

sealed  the  poet's  fate ;  and  four  years  after,  his  exile  was 
again  confirmed.  Received  openly  at  Pisa,  and  crowned  at 
Rome,  Henry  approached  and  besieged  Florence,  but 
after  a  wearisome  delay  before  the  walls,  and  several  fruit- 
less skirmishes,  he  fell  sick,  and  on  the  last  night  of 
October,  1813,  abandoned  the  attempt  to  the  glory  of  the 
city.  He  soon  aftei;  died  at  St.  Salvi,  and  these  eras  of 
violence  and  war  were  soon  succeeded  by  a  brilliant 
period  of  literature  and  art. 

The  mausoleum  of  the  Medici,  against  the  extravagant 
splendor  of  which,  Byron  utters  so  earnest  a  satire,  is 
now  far  advanced  towards  completion.  It  is  an  octagon, 
lined  with  the  richest  marble  and  most  precious  stones. 
As  the  curious  visitor  inspects  the  gorgeous  monument, 
how  various  and  conflicting  are  the  associations  inspired 
by  the  thought  of  the  renowned  family  it  celebrates. 
Their  redeeming  characteristics  were  taste  and  liberality. 
They  promoted  the  progress  of  humanity  by  rewarding 
the  exertions  of  genius,  rather  than  by  a  generous  philan- 
thropy. The  mass  were  as  much  cajoled  and  subject- 
ed, as  under  more  warlike  princes ;  but  the  gifted  re- 
ceived encouragement,  and  were  urged  to  high  endeavor. 
The  annals  of  the  house  of  Medici  abound  in  scenes,  at 
one  moment  exciting  warm  admiration,  and  the  next, 
unbounded  disgust.  One  instant  we  kindle  at  the  re- 
fined and  enthusiastic  taste  of  Lorenzo,  and  the  next,  are 
revolted  at  some  act  of  petty  tyranny.  Now  we  see 
genius  unfold  with  brilliant  success  beneath  the  fostering 
rays  of  patronage;  and  the  next,  injustice,  conspiracy,  or 
revenge,  degrades  the  chronicle.     The  patriotic  Cosmo, 


FLORENCE    REVISITED.  103 

ardently  listening  to  the  doctrines  of  Plato,  Lorenzo, 
the  Magnificent,  chatting  with  a  young  sculptor  in  his 
garden,  the  dissipated  and  cunning  Giovanni,  the 
imbecile  Piero,  the  perfidious  Lorenzino,  and  the  cruel 
Catharine,  pass  before  us  in  startling  contrast.  Yet  as 
we  behold  the  works  to  which  the  redeemers  of  the  name 
have  given  rise,  and  trace  the  splendid  results  of  wealth 
dedicated  to  the  cause  of  taste,  we  feel  their  mission  on 
the  earth  was  one,  the  intellectual  fruits  of  which  are 
inestimable  and  progressive.  The  origin  of  the  Medici 
family  has  been  romantically  referred  to  Averardo  de 
Medici,  a  commander  under  Charlemagne.  The  first 
authentic  mention  of  this  celebrated  race  seems,  however, 
to  indicate  Filippo  as  one  of  the  earliest  founders.  To- 
ward the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century,  the  Guelphs 
having  obtained  the  chief  authority  in  Florence,  Filippo, 
oppressed  by  the  Ghibelines,  fled  from  Fiorano,  in  the 
valley  of  Mugello,  to  the  Tuscan  capital,  which,  thence- 
forth, became  his  country.  In  1348,  we  read  of  Frances- 
co de  Medici,  as  the  head  of  the  magistracy,  although 
prevented  by  the  plague  from  exercising  his  functions. 
Filippo  left  two  sons,  Bicci  and  Giovanni.  To  the  latter 
succeeded  Cosmo,  and  with  his  name  began  the  renown 
of  the  house.  The  world  was  but  just  emerging  from 
barbarism  when  this  prince  commenced  his  sway.  Al- 
though exiled  by  a  faction,  his  absence  was  deeply  regret- 
ted, and  his  return  triumphantly  hailed.  Cosmo  invited 
numerous  Greek  refugees  to  settle  on  the  banks  of  the 
Arno.  Through  them,  a  new  interest  was  awakened  in 
ancient  literature ;   classical  studies  revived,  and  manu- 


104  FLORENCE    REVISITED. 

scripts  were  eagerly  sought.  While  the  council  of  Flor 
ence  were  employed  in  barren  theological  disputes, 
Cosmo  was  listening  to  Gemisthus  Pletho,  and  planning 
a  Platonic  academy.  Among  the  illustrious  Greeks 
whom  he  befriended,  was  Agyropylus.  '  My  son,'  said 
he,  leaning  over  the  cradle  of  one  of  his  children,  « if  you 
were  born  to  be  happy,  you  will  have  Agyropylus  for  your 
preceptor.'  Cosmo  was  succeeded  by  Piero,  who  had 
previously  married  the  wealthy  Contessina  Bardi.  His 
authority  was  near  being  overturned  by  a  conspiracy, 
headed  by  the  Pitti  family,  who,  in  the  end,  were  obliged 
to  flee,  leaving  their  superb  palace  unfinished.  Piero  left 
two  sons,  Lorenzo  and  Giuliano.  The  brilliant  career  of 
the  former  has  been  made  familiar  by  the  elaborate  and, 
perhaps  flattered  portrait  of  Roscoe.  That  this  mag- 
nificent prince  was  a  man  of  more  than  ordinary  abilities, 
is  sufficiently  proved  by  the  address  exhibited  on  his 
youthful  embassy  to  Ferdinand  of  Naples,  as  well  as  by 
the  numerous  specimens  extant  of  his  poetical  talent?. 
But  no  small  portion  of  his  renown  is  to  be  ascribed 
simply  to  his  immense  wealth  and  exalted  station.  He 
was  a  man  of  elegant  taste,  rather  than  of  extraordinary 
genius  ;  and  merits  applause  for  his  liberal  patronage  of 
literature  and  the  arts,  more  than  for  any  example  he  has 
bequeathed  of  intellectual  or  moral  power.  He  renewed 
and  prolonged  the  impulse  his  father  had  given  to  the 
cause  of  civilization.  The  visitor  is  continually  remind- 
ed of  the  obligations  of  Florence  to  Lorenzo.  He  estab- 
lished a  school  of  sculpture,  greatly  enriched  the  Lau- 
rentian    library,    improved    architecture,   promoted    the 


FLORENCE    REVISITED.  105 

study  of  philosophy,  and  revived  the  art  of  the  lapidary. 
His  life  was  passed  in  the  midst  of  men  distinguished 
for  genius  and  acquirements,  whom  his  magnificent 
taste  -had  gathered  around  him.  His  time  was  occu- 
pied in  supervising  local  improvements,  cheering  native 
genius,  collecting  rare  manuscripts  and  medals,  culti- 
vating philosophy,  studying  politics,  making  love,  discus- 
sing poetry  with  Politiano,  and  writing  sonnets.  He  de- 
monstrated that  a  prince  could  find  ample  employment, 
and  attain  true  glory  without  recourse  to  conquest. 
He  proved  that  there  were  more  enduring  monuments 
than  those  which  rise  from  the  battle-field.  His  name 
is  associated  with  works  of  art  and  literary  productions, 
as  indissolubly  as  those  of  their  authors,  and  although  he 
only  lived  to  the  age  of  forty-four,  he  expired  tranquilly 
in  the  midst  of  his  friends.  His  death  was  deemed  a 
national  misfortune,  and  seems  to  have  been  the  precur- 
sor of  innumerable  woes  to  Italy.  Giovanni,  son  of 
Lorenzo,  was  an  archbishop  at  ten,  and  a  cardinal  at 
fourteen — the  youngest  person  ever  raised  to  that  rank. 
A  letter  still  extant,  addressed  by  his  father  to  him  at 
Rome,  evinces  how  much  at  heart  he  held  his  advance- 
ment. After  the  death  of  Piero,  Giovanni  became  the 
head  of  the  family  ;  and  all  his  wishes  centered  in  the 
hope  of  reviving  its  influence,  which  had  again  suffered 
a  serious  interruption.  This  feeling  he  prudently  con- 
cealed for  some  time.  After  the  battle  of  Ravenna,  three 
young  men,  resolute  friends  of  the  Medici,  went  to  the 
Gonfaliere,  and,  with  their  daggers  at  his  throat,  forced 
Soderiui  to  resign.     The  Medici  being  thus  restored, 


106  FLORENCE    REVISITED. 

Giovanni  was  made  Pope,  under  the  title  of  Leo  X. 
His  pontificate  is  celebrated  as  a  period  when  letters  and 
the  arts  flourished  to  an  unparalleled  degree.  Previous 
circumstances,  however,  had  prepared  the  way  for  the 
many  brilliant  results  of  that  remarkable  epoch.  The 
sale  of  indulgences,  and  other  church  abuses,  were  then 
carried  to  the  highest  point ;  and  the  protests  against 
ecclesiastical  tyranny  commenced,  which  ushered  in  the 
reformation.  Cosmo,  Francesco  and  Ferdinand,  main, 
tained  something  of  the  liberal  and  tasteful  spirit  of  their 
ancestors.  But  under  Ferdinand  II.,  who,  in  16*21, 
came  to  the  government,  at  the  age  of  eleven,  the  aspect  of 
affairs  changed.  Extravagant  expenditures  drained  the 
state  of  its  resources,  and  when  Cosmo  III.,  died,  after 
a  reign  of  fifty. three  years,  Tuscany  was  reduced  to  a 
most  deplorable  state,  oppressed  with  a  heavy  national 
debt,  and  exhausted  by  taxes.  Fortunately  for  the  coun- 
try, John  Gaston  was  the  last  of  his  family,  once  so  glo- 
rious, but  now  so  sadly  degenerated.  He  died  after  an 
indifferent  rule,  and  in  accordance  with  the  terms  of  peace 
with  Vienna  (1735)  loft  his  duchy  to  the  house  of  Lor- 
raine. Francis  Stephen,  Duke  of  Lorraine,  and  Grand 
Duke  of  Tuscany,  made  a  contract  with  John  Gaston's 
sister- — the  last  of  the  name  of  Medici,  by  which  he  ac- 
quired the  various  allodial  possessions  collected  by  her 
ancestors.  Under  the  twenty-six  years  of  the  sway  of 
his  son  Leopold,  Tuscany  recovered  from  a  de- 
cline that  had  lasted  more  than  a  century.  He  encour- 
aged commerce,  agriculture  and  manufactures,  established 
penitentiaries,  abolished  the  inquisition,  and  proclaimed 


FLORENCE    REVISITED.  107 

a  new  criminal  code.  His  financial  administration  was 
admirable,  and  his  ov/n  manner  of  life  extremely  simple. 
The  traveller  in  Italy  still  recognizes  the  happy  influ- 
ences of  his  regenerating  rule.  Nor  has  the  effect  of  his 
noble  example  been  contravened  by  his  successor.  An 
air  of  contentment,  and  a  feeling  of  safety  continues  to 
distinguish  Tuscany,  and  render  it  the  favourite  sojourn 
of  the  stranger.  Even  the  comparative  severity  of  the 
climate  in  winter,  aggravated  by  the  tramontana  which 
sweeps  so  coldly  from  the  mountains,  seldom  drives  the 
foreign  sojourners  to  more  genial  localities.  It  is  not, 
perhaps,  without  reason,  that  the  distinguished  literary 
rank  which  Florence  holds  in  Italian  history,  has  been 
ascribed  to  its  inferior  climate. 

There  is  something  almost  oppressive  to  the  senses, 
and  confusing  to  the  mind,  in  the  immense  collections  of 
paintings  in  Italy.  The  stranger,  especially  if  his  time 
is  limited,  and  his  eagerness  for  knowledge  and  true  im- 
pressions, a  delicate  and  discriminating,  as  well  as  an 
earnest  passion,  will  not  unfrequently  regret  the  number 
and  variety  of  interesting  objects  which  at  once  demand 
his  attention.  A  scene  of  natural  grandeur  or  beauty 
seldom  distracts  the  eye  with  the  variety  of  its  features. 
The  mountain  range  which  girdles  the  prospect,  the  grove 
which  waves  above  the  cliff,  the  river  flowing  through  the 
vale,  the  flowers  on  its  banks,  and  the  rich  cloud-land 
above,  are  harmonized  to  the  view,  reposing  beneath  the 
same  light,  and  stirred  by  a  common  air.  But  each  work 
of  art  has  a  distinctive  character.  It  is  a  memorial  of  an 
individual    mind.      It    demands    undivided    attention. 


108  FLORENCE    REVISITED. 

Hence,  the  first  visit  to  a  museum  of  art  is  almost  invari- 
ably unsatisfactory.  We  instinctively  wish  that  the  array 
were  not  so  imposing.  Many  a  sweet  countenance, 
whose  expression  haunts  us  like  a  dream,  we  vainly  en- 
deavor to  recall ;  many  a  group  we  would  fain  transfer  to 
our  own  apartment,  that  there  we  might  leisurely  survey 
its  excellencies,  and  grow  familiar  with  its  spirit.  There 
are  few  public  galleries  which  are  less  objectionable,  on 
this  account,  than  that  of  Florence.  Yvhen  we  have 
paused  in  the  vestibule  long  enough  to  recover  breath 
after  ascending  the  long  flight  of  stairs,  and  inspect  the 
specimens  of  statuary  there  arranged,  the  first  paintings 
which  meet  our  gaze,  on  entering,  are  of  an  early  date. 
The  stiff  execution  brings  to  mind  the  Chinese  style, 
and  indicates  a  primitive  epoch  in  the  history  of  art. 
The  arabesques  on  the  ceiling,  the  portraits  immediately 
beneath  it,  and  the  range  of  ancient  busts  below,  fill, 
without  dazzling  the  eye.  As  we  pass  on,  the  interest  in- 
creases at  every  step.  There  is  a  gradual  growth  of 
attraction.  Curiosity  is  soon  absorbed  in  a  deeper  sen- 
timent. Alternately  we  stand  smiling  before  some 
graphic  product  of  the  Dutch  pencil,  wrapt  in  a  specula, 
tive  reverie  over  an  obscure  painting,  or  seated,  at  last, 
quite  absorbed  in  admiration  within  the  hallowed  precincts 
of  the  Tribune.  The  perfect  freedom  of  entrance  and 
observation,  unannoyed  by  the  jargon  of  a  cicerone^ 
doubtless  adds  to  the  pleasure  of  a  visit  to  the  Florence 
collections.  And  the  heart  is  not  less  gratified  than  the 
eye,  when  we  behold  one  ot  the  sunburnt  coniadini  improv- 
ing a  spare  hour  on  market-days,  to  loiter  in  the  gallery,  or 


FLORENCE    REVISITED.  109 

turns  from  a  miracle  of  art  to  the  happy  countenance  of 
some  foreign  painter,  as  he  stands  before  his  easel,  intent 
upon  copying  a  favorite  original.  The  most  unique  fea- 
ture in  the  collections  of  which  this  city  boasts,  however, 
is  doubtless  the  gallery  of  portraits  of  celebrated  painters, 
chiefly  by  themselves.  How -interesting  to  turn  from  the 
immortil  products  of  the  pencil,  to  the  lineaments  of  the 
artist !  Raphael's  sweet  countenance,  eloquent  with  the 
refined  beauty  which  distinguishes  his  works,  and  sub- 
dued by  something  of  the  melancholy  associated  with  his 
early  death ;  Perugino,  his  master  ;  Leonardo  da  Vinci, 
who  first  developed  the  principles  of  that  progress  in  art, 
which  was  perfected  during  the  fifteenth  century,  who  so 
earnestly  and  successfully  devoted  his  life  to  the  advance- 
ment of  his  favorite  pursuit,  and  died  in  the  arms  of  his 
royal  patron  ;  Salvator  Rosa,  the  poet,  musician  and 
painter,  recognised  by  his  half  savage  aspect,  who  so  de- 
lighted in  scenes  of  gloomy  grandeur,  and  studied  nature 
with  such  enthusiasm  amid  the  wilds  of  the  Appenines  ; — 
all,  in  short,  of  that  glorious  phalanx,  whose  best  monu- 
meuts  are  their  works. 

The  bronze  statue  of  Perseus,  under  the  allogii  of  the 
gallery,  reminds  the  passer  of  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
characters  to  which  Florence  has  given  birth.  Born  on 
the  night  of  All  Saints'  day,  Cellini  assures  us  he  was 
rapturously  welcomed  to  the  world  by  his  father,  who,  as 
if  anticipating  his  future  celebrity,  instantly  greeted  him 
as  Benvenuto.  Like  Salvator  Rosa,  music,  at  first,  dis- 
puted the  empire  of  his  mind  with  the  other  arts,  and  his  re- 
markable performance  on  the  flute,  was  the  primary  occa. 
10 


110  FLORENCE    REVISITED. 

sion  of  attracting  towards  him  attention  and  patronage. 
Indeed,  the  artist's  father  most  pertinaciously  fixed  all  his 
hopes  for  young  Cellini's  advancement,  upon  his  profi- 
ciency in  this  accomplishment.  Benvenuto's  ambition, 
however,  was  of  a  far  more  various  and  earnest  nature 
than  the  success  of  a  mere  musician  could  gratify.  To 
please  his  parent,  however,  he  long  continued  to  devote 
much  time  to  practising  upon  his  favorite  instrument, 
although  the  employment  was  frequently  an  occasion  of 
ennui  and  disgust.  At  length,  having  been  apprenticed 
to  a  goldsmith,  the  skill  he  displayed  in  the  finer  depart- 
ments of  the  trade,  indicated,  in  a  striking  manner,  the 
true  bent  of  his  genius.  Henceforth,  we  find  Benvenuto 
constantly  employed  in  various  places,  and  everywhere 
with  distinguished  success.  It  strikes  us,  at  the  present 
day,  with  no  little  surprise,  to  perceive  the  enthusiasm 
excited  by  labors  of  such  a  nature  as  employed  the  mind 
of  Cellini ;  but  the  exquisite  grace  and  rare  invention  he 
displayed,  were  as  significant  of  talent  to  the  admirers  of 
art,  in  the  fifteenth  century,  as  the  gifted  limner  exhibited 
on  his  canvas,  or  the  statuary  in  his  marble.  His  abilities 
were  in  constant  requisition,  and  seemed. to  have  excited 
equal  admiration  whether  bestowed  upon  a  button  for  the 
Pope,  a  chalice  for  a  Cardinal,  or  a  salt-cellar  for  King 
Francis. — At  one  time  we  find  him  engraver  to  the  mint 
at  Rome,  and  at  another,  exercising  all  his  ingenuity  in 
setting  a  precious  jewel,  executing  an  original  medal,  or 
designing  the  most  beautiful  figures  in  alto  relievo,  upon 
a  golden  vase,  for  some  Italian  prince.  For  a  consider- 
able period,  he  was  without  an  equal  in  his  profession. 


FLORENCE    REVISITED.  HI 

Towards  the  last  of  his  life,  however,  his  energies  seem 
to  have  been  concentrated  upon  sculpture,  of  which  the 
Perseus  is  the  most  celebrated  specimen.  The  account 
he  gives  of  the  difficulties  surmounted  in  casting  this 
statue  and  the  unworhy  treatment  he  received  from  the 
Grand  Duke,  in  regard  to  his  recompense,  is  among  the 
most  painful  examples  of  the  trials  of  artists.  Cellini's 
life  was  one  of  the  most  singular  vicissitude.  Frequently 
changing  his  abode,  working  under  the  patronage  of  vari- 
ous princes,  of  a  bold  apd  active  temper,  his  memoirs 
present  a  picture  in  wiiich  the  quiet  pursuits  of  an  artist  are 
grotesquely  mingled  with  the  experiences  of  an  adventurer. 
One  day,  banished  from  his  native  city  for  having  been 
engaged  in  a  bloody  quarreU  another,  high  in  the  confi- 
dence of  kings  and  popes  ;  now  pining  in  the  dungeon 
of  St.  Angelo,  which  he  once  so  gallantly  defended,  and 
now  rich  and  honored  in  the  service  of  a  magnificent 
court.  If  we  are  to  place  the  slightest  faith  in  his  own 
testimony,  Benvenuto  proved  himself  equal  to  any  exigen- 
cy, and  fairly  overcame  his  various  enemies  by  his  prompt 
courage,  or  quick  invention.  He  is  certainly  the  prince 
of  boasters.  The  coolness  with  which  he  speaks  of 
despatching  his  foes,  is  startling  to  one  familiar  only  with 
these  peaceful  times  ;  and  the  ingenuity  with  which  he 
bafiles  those  who  are  not  to  be  reached  by  the  sword,  is 
most  remarkable.  A  striking  instance  occurred  while  he 
was  in  the  employ  of  the  King  of  France.  Madame 
D'Estampes,  who  seems  to  have  been  extremely  disaf- 
fected towards  Benvenuto,  induced  the  king  to  inspect 
Bome  of  his  most  recent  works  at  an  hour  the  most  un- 


112  FLORENCE    REVISITED. 

favorable  for  their  display.  Cellini,  anticipating  the 
effect,  affixed  a  torch  to  the  arm  of  a  .statue  of  Jupit,er  ; 
and  while  his  female  enemy  and  the  monarch  were  regard- 
ing his  studies,  in  the  dusky  light,  he  suddenly  ignited 
the  torch,  and  wheeled  the  Jupiter  into  the  centre  of  the 
room.  The  effect  was  most  vivid,  as  the  light  was  placed 
at  exactly  the  right  angle  to  show  the  figure  to  the  best 
advantage.  Francis  received  a  new  and  powerful  im- 
pression of  the  genius  of  Cellini,  and  Madame's  design 
was  completely  counteracted.  J'he  versatility  of  talent  in 
the  character  of  Benvenuto  was  not  more  surprising  than 
his  boundless  self-confidence.  How  much  are  we  indebt- 
ed to  this  quality  for  the  fruits  of  genius  !  Gifts  of  mind, 
unaccompanied  by  a  vivid  sense  of  their  existence,  are 
of  little  benefit  to  the  world.  Consciousness  of  power, 
firm  and  unwavering,  is  the  best  guarantee  for  its  appro- 
priate exertion.  How  much  of  the  cool  decision  of  great 
men  is  attributable  to  confidence  in  their  destiny  !  When 
Napoleon  was  urged  to  leave  a  dangerous  position,  during 
an  engagement  when  the  shot  were  flying  thickly  around 
him,  and  calmly  replied,  Uhe  ball  is  not  yet  moulded 
which  is  destined  for  me,'  who  does  not  recognize  one 
secret  cause  of  his  intrepidity?  No  combination  of  cir- 
cumstances seemed  adequate  to  shake  Cellini's  faith  in 
himself  He  spoke  as  certainly  of  the  issue  of  an  exper- 
iment in  his  art,  as  if  it  had  been  repeatedly  proved. 
Again  and  again  he  reinstated  himself  in  the  favor  from 
which  the  machinations  of  his  rivals  had  removed  him,  by 
the  clear  earnestness  of  his  bearing.  Whether  discussing 
the  merits  of  a  work  of  art,  defending  himself  before  a  tri- 


FLORENCE    REVISITED.  113 

bunal,  engaged  hand  to  hand  with  a  foe,  or  casting  a  statue 
which  had  cost  him  years  of  toil,  he  seemed  to  act  upon 
the  sentiment  of  the  poet — 

"^Courage  gone?    aU's  gono — 
Better  never  have  been  born." 

It  cannot  but  provoke  a  smile  in  contrast  with  the  theo- 
ries of  later  moralists,  after  having  followed  Benvenuto 
thruugh  an  unequalled  category  of  brawls,  duels,  amours 
and  intrigues,  to  find  him  consoling  himself  in  prison  by 
communing  with  angelic  visions,  and  cheering  his  heart 
with  the  conviction  that  he  is  an  especial  favorite  of  Hea- 
ven. Benvenuto  closed  his  adventurous  life  where  he 
commenced  it ;  and  was  buried  with  many  honors,  in  the 
church  of  the  Annunziata,  at  Florence.  His  native  city 
is  adorned  with  the  chief  ornament  of  his  genius  ;  and 
the  exquisite  specimens  of  his  skill  as  a  jeweller  and  en- 
graver, are  scattered  over  the  cabinets  of  virtuosi  through, 
out  Italy. 

The  opera-house  of  Florence,  called  the  Pergola,  is 
remarkable  for  its  chaste  interior.  Romani's  poetry  has 
recently  given  a  new  interest  to  this  favorite  amusement. 
It  seems  almost  to  have  revived  the  dulcet  numbers  of 
Metastasio,  and  wedded  to  the  touching  strains  of  Bellini, 
leaves  no  occasion  to  regret  the  earlier  eras  of  the  musical 
drama.  The  want  of  permanent  prose  companies  in 
the  different  cities  of  Italy,  as  schools  of  language,  if  a 
great  desideratum  ;  and  the  number  of  trashy  translations 
from  the  French,  degrade  the  national  taste.  Sometimes 
the  excellent  company  of  Turin,  including  the  inimitable 
10* 


114  FLORENCE    REVISITED. 

Vestri,  a  Tuscan  by  birth,  visit  Florence  in  the  autumn, 
and  furnish  a  pleasant  pastime  at  the  Cocomero,  while 
during  Carnival,  Stenterello  dispenses  his  jokes  and 
rhymes  at  the  Borg'  Ogni  Santi.  In  Florence,  alone,  is 
enjoyed  ihe  opportunity,  at  certain  seasons,  of  witnessing 
Alfieri's  tragedies.  The  stranger,  too,  cannot  but  grate- 
fully recur  to  the  comedies  of  Goldoni.  They  furnish 
him  with  an  admirabie  introduction  to  the  language;  and 
when  he  is  once  more  at  home,  and  would  fain  renew  the 
associations  of  every  day  life  in  far  distant  Italy,  he  has 
only  to  peruse  one  of  these  colloquial  plays,  and  be  tran- 
sported, at  once,  to  a  locancla  or  a  caff^.  Goldoui's  his- 
tory is  intimately  associated  with  his  comedies.  Succes- 
sively a  student  of  medicine,  diplomacy  and  law,  a  maker 
of  almanacs,  and  a  comic  writer,  his  personal  adventures 
abound  in  the  humorous.  He  solaced  himself,  when  un- 
fortunate, by  observing  the  passing  scene.  When  jilted 
by  a  woman,  or  cheated  by  a  knave,  he  revenged  himself 
by  showing  up  their  conduct  as  a  warning,  in  his  next 
play.  He  looked  upon  the  panorama  of  human  existence, 
not  as  a  metaphysician,  but  as  a  painter,  not  to  discover 
the  ideal,  but  to  display  the  actual.  Yet  he  often  aimed 
at  bringing  popular  vices  or  follies  into  contempt,  and  fre- 
quently with  no  little  success.  At  a  time  when  cisces- 
beism  and  gambling  prevailed  in  Venice,  he  portrayed 
their  consequences  so  graphically,  that,  a  for  time,  both 
practices  were  brought  into  disrepute  ;  and  when  the 
Spectator  began  to  be  read,  and  it  became  fashionable  for 
women  to  affect  philosophy,  he  turned  the  laugh  upon 
them  with    his  Filosofo  Inglese.     His  comedies   have 


I 


FLORENCE    REVISITED.  115 

more  humor  than  wit,  but  their  chief  attraction  is  their 
truth  to  nature.  Although  much  attached  to  Venice,  his 
native  city,  which  he  declares  was  never  revisited  without 
discovering  new  beauties,  Goldoni  seems  to  have  highly 
enjoyed  his  long  residence  at  the  French  court.  He 
boasts  of  having  an  excellent  appetite  after  e\ery  fresh 
mortification  ;  and  when  care  or  sickness  made  him 
wakeful,  he  was  accustomed  to  translate  from  the  Vene- 
tian into  the  Tuscan  dialect,  and  then  into  the  French,  by 
way  of  a  soporific.  Overshadowed  as  his  buoyant  spirit 
was  at  last,  by  illness  and  reverses,  his  happy  tempera- 
ment made  his  life  pleasant.  He  had  the  satisfaction  of 
feeling  that,  through  his  efforts,  comedy  was  reformed 
in  [taly,  and  his  country  furnished  with  a  stock  of  stand- 
dard  plays,  of  excellent  tendency,  sixteen  of  which  were 
composed  in  one  year — no  ordinary  achievement^^  of  in. 
dustry. 

The  house  of  tfie  Buonarotti  family  has  recently  un- 
dergone extensive  repairs.  But  the  rooms  once  occu- 
pied by  Michael  Angelo,  remain  unchanged,  save  that 
around  one  of  them  are  arrang-ed  a  series  of  paintings, 
illustrative  of  the  artist's  life.  How  Florence  teems 
with  the  fame  of  this  most  gifted  of  her  children !  How 
rife  are  his  sayings  on  the  lips  of  her  citizens  !  How 
eloquently  do  his  works  speak  in  the  city  wher^his  bones 
repose  !  As  the  Cathedral  dome  first  greets  the  stranger's 
eye,  or  ^^fades  from  his  parting  gaze,  how  naturally  does 
it  suggest  the  thoughts  of  St.  "Peter's  and  the  artist's 
well  known  exclamation!  In  a  twilight  walk  along  the 
river-side,  as  we  watch  the  evening  star  over  San  Spirito, 


116  FLORENCE    REVISITED. 

we  remember  that  a  prior  of  that   convent  taught  him 
anatomy.     If  we  pass  the  church  del    Carmine,  we   are 
reminded  that  he  there  studied  the  early  efforts  of  Mas. 
sacio.     In  the  gallery,  we  behold  the   Dancing   Faun, 
whose  head  he  so    admirably   restored,  wonder  at    the 
stern  face  of  Brutus,  or  ponder  his  own  portrait.     In  the 
Piazza  is  his  David,  in  the  church  of  San  Lorenzo,  his 
Day  and  Night,  and  that  perfect  embodiment  of  Hora- 
tio's  familiar  phrase — 'a  countenance    more  in  sorrow 
than   in    anger,' — the  statue   of  the    Duke   of    U rhino. 
Here  he  made   his  figure  of  snow  ;  there  he   buried  his 
sleeping  Cupid,  which  was  dug  up  for  an  antique.     Near 
St.    Mark's  was  the  school  of  sculpture,  where  he   first 
practiced.     In  Santa  Croce  is  his  tomb.     The   memory 
of  Michael  Angelo   constitutes  the  happiest  of  the  many 
interesting  associations  of  Florence.     Not  less  as  a  man 
than  an  artist,  does  his  name  lend  dignity  and  beauty  to 
the  scene.     We  look  upon  the  master-lines  of  his  unfin- 
ished works,  and  realize  the  struggles  of  his  soul  towards 
perfection.     Truly  has  one  of  his  biographers  remarked, 
*  his  genius  was  vast  and  wild,  by  turns  extravagant  and 
capricious,  rarely  to  be   implicitly  followed,  always  to  be 
studied  with  advantage.'     But  we  think  not  merely  here 
of  the  sculptor,  painter,  architect,  philosopher  and  poet ; 
we  dwell  Upon,  and  feel   the  whole  character  of  him  who 
so  nobly  proved  his  eminent  claim  to  the^e  various  titles. 
As  we  tread  the  chambers  where  he  passed  so  many  nights 
of  study,  so   many  days  of  toil,  as  we  behold  the  oratory 
where  he  prayed,  or  stand  above  his  ashes,  we  think  of  his 
noble  independence  which  princes  and  prelates,  in  a  venal 


FLORENCE    REVISITED.  117 

age,  could  not  subdue,  of  his  deep  sympathy  with  the 
grand  and  beautiful  in  human  nature,  and  of  his  true  af- 
fection which  dictated  the  sentiment — 

"  Better  plea 
Love  cannot  find  than  that  in  loving  thee, 
Glory  to  that  eternal  Peace  is  paid 
Who  such  divinity  to  thee  imparts, 
As  hallows  and  makes  pure  all  gentle  hearts." 

Art  seemed  not  an  exclusive  end  to  Michael  Angelo. 
For  fame,  he  cherished  no  morbid  appetite.  He  was 
conscious  of  loftier  aims.  His  letters  and  sonnets 
breathe  the  noblest  aspirations,  and  the  most  perfect 
love  of  truth.  When  refused  admittance  to  the  Pope's 
presence,  he  quitted  Rome  in  disgust ;  yet  watched  as 
tenderly  by  the  sick-bed  of  a  faithful  servant,  as  at  that  of 
a  son  or  a  brother.  As  the  architect  of  St.  Peter'p,  he 
declined  all  emolument ;  and  kissed  the  cold  hand  of 
Vittoria  Colonna  with  tearful  reverence.  After  eighty- 
eight  years  spent  in  giving  a  mighty  impulse  to  the  arts, 
in  cultivating  sculpture,  painting,  poetry  and  architecture, 
in  observing  Hhe  harmless  comedy  of  life,'  in  proving  the 
supremacy  of  genius  over  weahh,  of  moral  power  over 
rank,  of  character  over  the  world,  Michael  Angelo  died, 
saying,  '  My  soul  I  resign  to  God,  my  body  to  the  earth, 
and  my  possessions  to  my  nearest  kin.'  He  left  a  be- 
quest of  which  he  spoke  not,  for  it  was  already  decreed 
that  his  fame  and  example  stiould  shed  a  perennial  honoj;- 
upon  Florence,  and  for  ever  bless  the  world. 


THE    THESPIAN    SYREN. 


But  ever  and  anon  of  grief  subdued 

There  comes  a  token  like  a  sc  irpion's  sting, 

Scarce  seen,  but  with  fresh  bitterness  imbued. 

Byron. 
I. 

It  was  towards  the  close  of  a  cool  but  delightful  autumn 
evening,  in  Milan,  the  best  part  of  which  I  had  vainly 
spent  in  searching  for  a  friend.  All  at  once  it  occurred 
to  me  that  he  naight  beat  the  opera  ; — yet,  thought  1,  F  — 
is  very  fastidious,  and  there  is  no  particular  attraction  to- 
night. Thus  weighing  the  matter  on  my  mind,  I  came 
within  sight  of  the  Scala,  and  I  was  soon  at  the  door  of 
Count  G — 's  box,  where  F —  was  generally  to  be  found. 
The  orchestra  was  pei forming  an  interlude,  and  the  foot- 
lights beaming  upon  the  beautiful  classical  groups  depict- 
ed  on  the  drop.  My  friend  was  not  visible,  and  I  should 
instantly  have  retreated,  had  not  a  side  glance  revealed 
to  me  the  figure  of  a  young  man,  seated  in  the  shadow  of 
the  box  curtains.  Count  G —  was  partial  to  Americans, 
and  I  scrutinized  the  stranger,  thinking  it  not  impossi- 


THE    THESPIAN    SYREN.  119 

ble  he  was  a  countryman,  but  soon  recognized  the  coun- 
tenance of  a  Scotch  student,  with  whom  I  had  exchanged 
a  few  words  at  our  table-cThote  in  the  morning.  It  was 
several  minutes  before  I  satisfied  myself  of  his  identity, 
so  different  was  his  aspect  and  demeanor.  He  sat  oppo- 
site me,  at  the  table,  and  was  engaged  in  a  most  lively 
conversation  with  a  flaxen-haired  daughter  of  Vienna, 
who  appeared  delighted  with  the  opportuuity  of  reciting 
the  story  of  her  travels  to  a  new  acquaintance,  which  she 
persisted  in  doing,  notwithstanding  the  obvious  displea- 
sure of  her  father,  a  military  charafcter,  who  morosely  de- 
voured his  dinner  beside  her.  Her  auditor  repaid  the 
lady's  condescension  with  an  account  of  the  customs  and 
traditions  of  the  Highlanders,  in  doing  which  the  keen 
air  of  his  native  hills  seemed  to  inspire  him  ;  for  from  a 
constrained  and  quiet,  he  gradually  glided  into  a  free  and 
earnest  manner,  and  evolved  enthusiasm  enough  to  draw 
sympathizing  looks  even  from  a  coterie  of  native  Italians, 
his  opposite  neighbors.  Frank  Graham  was  now  in  a 
totally  different  mood.  He  sat,  braced  in  his  seat,  as  if 
under  the  influence  of  some  nervous  affection ;  his  lips 
when  released  from  the  restraint  imposed  upon  them, 
quivered  incessantly,  and — it  might  have  been  fancy — but 
I  thought  I  saw,  in  the  dusky  light,  several  hasty  tears  fall 
upon  the  crimson  drapery.  There  is  something  in  the 
deep  emotion  of  a  man  of  intellectual  vigor — and  such, 
Graham's  table-talk  had  proved  him— which  interests  us 
deeply.  The  very  attempt  to  check  the  tide  of  feeling, 
the  struggle  between  the  reason  and  the  heart,  the  affec- 
tive and  reflective  powers,  as  a  phrenologist  would  say, 


120  THE    THESPIAN    SYREN. 

awakens  our  sympathy.  I  forgot  the  object  of  my  visit 
to  the  Scala,  and  silently  resolved  to  lead  off  my  fellow- 
sojourner  fi-om  the  memory  of  his  disquietude,  or  draw 
from  him  its  cause,  and,  if  possible,  act  the  comfcrter. 
"With  this  view,  I  approached  him  carelessly,  as  if  I  had 
not  noticed  his  emotion,  and  proffered  him  the  greetings 
of  the  evening.  He  looked  at  me  vacantly,  a  moment, 
but  soon  rejoined  with  cordiality.  Then  rising  and 
drawing  his  cloak  around  him,  he  seized  my  hand  and  ex- 
claimed— 'Let  us  leave  this  place,  my  friend.'  There 
was  confidence  implied  in  his  tremulous  tones,  yet  I  was 
half  in  doubt  as  to  the  propriety  of  alluding  to  his  obvious 
depression.  It  was  a  fine  moonlight  night,  and  we 
walked  side  by  side  for  several  minutes,  in  silence. 
*  How  long  since  you  left  home,  Mr.  Graham?'  I  in- 
quired by,  way  of  beginning  a  colloquy.  *  Five  minutes 
ago,  or  thereabouts,'  he  replied  huskily.  I  halted  in  sur- 
prise, and  gazed  upon  him  in  wonder.  He  stopped  also, 
and  observing  my  astonishment  continued  in  a  clearer 
voice,  *  Do  not  be  alarmed  my  friend  ;  I  am  perfectly 
sane  ;  literally  speaking,  I  left  Scotland  five  years  since, 
but  just  now  your  voice  aroused  me  to  a  consciousness  of 
where  and  what  I  am.  I  have  been  carried  back  not  on- 
ly to  my  country,  but  to  my  youth,  to  its  richest  hour,  to 
its  most  vivid  epoch ;  you,  by  a  word,  dissolved  the  spell  : 
— there  is  the  famous  cathedral,  this  is  Milan,  and  I  am 
nothing  now  but  Frank  Graham  ;  but  one  memento  of 
my  recent  fairy  land  remains' — and  he  pointed  to  the 
moon. 

*  Oh  what  mistaken  kindness  we  sometimes  practice  !' 


THE    THESPIAN    SYREN.  121 

I  replied  ;  you  seemed  brooding  over  some  sorrowful  sub- 
ject.  I  thought  to  divert  your  attention.  Forgive  my 
intrusion,  for  many,  many  injuries  are  fanciful  and  un- 
worthy the  name,  compared  with  Jhat  which  drags  a  happy 
idealist  from  his  serie  in  the  heavens,  down  to  life's  com- 
mon and  desert  shore.' 

'Say  you  so,  my  friend  V  returned  Graham,  '  then  you 
will  not  laugh  at  an  incident  in  the  life  of  an  enthusiast. 
Come,  come,'  and  he  drew  my  arm  within  his,  and  quick- 
ened his  pace.  The  window  of  my  room  at  the  Albergo, 
reached  to  the  floor,  and  overlooked  a  small  garden  ;  as 
we  entered,  I  placed  the  lamps  in  a  distant  corner,  threw 
open  the  curtains  and  admitted  the  full  light  of  the  moon. 
*  Now,  Heaven  grant,'  said  I,  as  Frank  Graham  escon- 
ced  himself  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa,  and  filled  his  glass 
from  a  flask  of  red  wine — '  Heaven  grant  that  your's  is  a 
tale  of  love  and  chivalry,  for  such  a  scene  ill  befits  an  un- 
romantic  legend.' — « It  is,  indeed,  a  ghaious  night;  but 
who  ever  heard,  in  these  days,  of  a  poor  Scotch  student 
essaying  at  tournament  or  holy  war,  except  in  ihe  field  of 
fiction,  as  here,' — and  he  lifted  ^Ivanhoe*  from  the 
table — '  yet  remember  that  this  lovely  orb  smiles  equJilly 
upon  the  love-vigils  of  the  Highland  chief,  as  upon  those 
of  the  knights  of  old,  and  her  beams  must  seem  as  roman- 
tic to  you,  while  I  improvise  a  chapter  of  my  autobio- 
graphy,  as  they  did  to  Rebecca  the  Jewess,  daughter  of 
Isaac  of  York,  when  the  wounded  knight  related,  at  the 
same  witching  season,  his  adventures  in  Palestine.' 

II. 

The  vivid  impression  which  our  « first  play'  leaves  upon 
U 


122  THE    THESPIAN    SYREN. 

the  rnind  might  teach  us  something,  if  we  were  introspec 
live  moralists,  as  to  that  greatly  mooted  point — the  true 
influence  of  the  drama.  Perchance  from  the  deep  and 
splendid  visions  thus  awakened  to  the  fancy,  the  clear 
and  romantic  aspect  which  humanity  thus  portrayed  as- 
sumes, we  might  discover  no  questionable  affinity  between 
our  own  unsophisticated  natureaand  the  dramatic  art,  we 
might  appreciate  the  importance  of  such  an  institution  as 
the  theatre  to  civilized  man,  to  the  dawning  mind,  to  the 
human  being  as  such  ;  we  might  with  perfect  consistency, 
learn  to  rank  the  legitimate  drama  in  the  poetry  of  life. 
But  however  this  may  be,  there  are  many  incidental  ex- 
periences where  an  universal  end  is  pursued.  About 
every  general  object,  personal  associations  abundantly 
cling.  There  is  deep  truth  in  the  great  German  writer's 
remark — 'every  individual  spirit  wakes  in  the  great 
stream  of  multitude.'  Lamb's  first  visit  to  the  theatre  was 
powerfully  associated  with  a  plate  prefixed  to  Rowe's 
Shakspeare.  This  event  with  me,  is  linked  with  a  deep- 
er reminiscence,  for  it  occurred  at  an  age  of  deeper  sus- 
ceptibility. 

<I  was  educated  at  the  University  of  St.  Andrews,  and 
from  a  three  years'  residence  there,  divided  between  study, 
solitary  walks  along  the  sea-shore,  and  attendance  upon 
prudential  lectures  daily  delivered  by  the  maiden  aunt 
with  whom  I  resided,  I  was,  all  at  once,  removed  to  the 
metropolis  and  entered  as  a  law  student.  At  Edinburgh, 
I  boarded  with  a  distant  relation  who  was  a  great  musical 
amateur.  In  his  house  there  also  resided  a  very  eccentric 
man,  a  dramatist  by  profession.     He  had  an  interest  in 


THE    THESPIAN    SYREN.  123 

some  score  of  plays,  more  or  less  popular,  having  either 
composed  or  adapted  them  to  the  stage.  The  manager 
of  one  of  the  principal  theatres  was  his  intimate  friend, 
and  had  exerted  himself  to  bring  out  Mr.  Connington's 
dramas  so  successfully,  that  they  were  then  yielding  him 
a  very  handsome  income.  At  every  meal,  dramatic  liter- 
ature was  discussed,  and  the  merits  of  various  actors  can- 
vassed. Not  infrequently  my  kinsman,  who  was  quite  an 
adept  in  such  matters,  gave  imitations  of  the  best  trage- 
dians, by  way  of  an  evening's  pastime.  As  you  may 
suppose,  I  soon  became  much  interested  in  the  subject  of 
these  conversations.  To  me  a  new  field  of  thought  was 
opened.  And  yet  evening  after  evening,  I  declined  invi- 
tations to  attend  the  theatre.  This  was  thought  quite  sur- 
prising, particularly  as  I  manifested  so  much  interest  in 
every  thing  that  was  going  on  there,  and  after  a  while  took 
no  inconsiderable  part  in  the  dramatic  conversations. 
The  truth  was,  my  imagination  was  wrought  up  to  the 
highest  pitch.  My  '  first  play'  assumed  an  importance 
in  my  mind,  which  it  is  difficult  to  describe.  I  came  to 
regard  it  as  one  of  the  great  epochs  of  existence.  I  an- 
ticipated its  effects  as  nervous  people  sometimes  fancy 
the  operation  of  some  powerful  nostrum,  or  as  I  can  ima- 
gine'Sir  Humphrey  Davy  looked  forward  to  the  effect 
of  a  new  gas.  In  consequence  of  this  feeling,  1  made 
great  preparations  for  the  event.  I  read  Shakspeare  with 
greater  attention  than  ever  before,  informed  myself  of  the 
history  of  the  drama,  read  innumerable  criticisms,  biogra- 
phies and  lectures  illustrative  of  the  whole  subject,  and 
finally  determined  to  be  governed  by  circumstances  as  to 


124  THE    THESPIAN    SYKEN. 

the  occasion  I  should  choose  to  make  my  debnt  as  a  play- 
goer. 

*  I  entered  our  little  parlor  one  cold,  drizzly  evening, 
five  years  ago  this  very  night,  my  head  throbbing  with  six 
long  hours'  delving  into  the  mysteries  of  the  law.  In  no 
very  good  humor,  I  seated  myself  before  the  grate  to 
await  the  dinner  hour.  I  was  gazing  rather  moodily  at 
the  fire,  when  something  intercepted  its  rays ;  I  looked 
up,  Mr.  Connington  was  at  my  elbow  holding  a  printed 
bill  before  me.  I  could  distinguish  but  one  word,  'Yir- 
ginius.'  'Mr.  Graham,'  said  my  friend,  'you  must  go 
to-night.' — '  I  will,'  said  I,  and  we  sat  down  to  dinner. 

'During  the  meal  I  was  unusually  silent.  I  was  quite 
oppressed  with  the  thought  that  1  was  so  near  an  end  so 
long  anticipated.  I  fancied  I  had  been  too  precipitate. 
I  felt  like  one  standing  at  the  entrance  of  a  splendid 
Gothic  cathedral ;  it  seemed  to  me  that  a  single  step 
vould  bring  me  into  an  overpowering  scene. 
III. 
'  How  little,  my  friend,  can  a  man  of  ccnte,  lively  sen- 
sibilities calculate  upon  the  experience  that  awaits  him  ! 
A  skilful  devotee  of  science  can  predict,  with  a  good  de- 
gree  of  certainty,  the  approach  of  celestial  phenomena, 
the  existence  of  unseen  fountains,  and  even  the  direction 
of  the  unborn  breeze  ;  but  who  has  the  loresight  to  pro- 
phecy the  destiny  of  feeling — to  indicate  the  next  new- 
influence  which  shall  arouse  it,  to  trace  its  untravelled 
course,  or  point  confidently  to  its  issue?  A  man  consci- 
ous of  a  fathomless  tide  of  feeling  within  him,  who  throws 
himself  into  a  world  of  moral  excitements,  knows  but 


THE    THESPIAN   SYREN.  125 

this,  that  he  is  doomed  to  feel  deeply,  variously,  often  to 
suffer  agony — often  to  enjoy  delight.  But  the  very  means 
he  thought  would  prove  most  magnetic,  may  absolutely 
fail  to  attract,  and  some  unexpected  agency,  of  which  he 
dreamed  not,  may  approach  the  unguarded  portal  of  his 
soul,  and  take  it  by  surprise.  Such  was  my  experience 
when  I  trusted  myself  to  dramatic  influences.  I  had 
thought  to  be  subject  to  them  as  a  philosopher  ;  but  while 
seeking  this  end  I  was  taught  most  emphatically  to  realize 
my  own  humanity. 

*  The  leading  actress  on  the  Edinburgh  boards  at^e 
period  to  which  I  refer,  was  Helen  Trevor.  This  was 
not,  indeed,  the  name  by  which  she  was  known  to  the 
public ;  for  being  the  daughter  of  a  distinguished  per- 
former, it  was  deemed  expedient  for  her  to  appear  under 
her  mother's  family  name,  which  was  one  of  the  highest  in 
the  annals  of  the  British  stage.  I  first  saw  her  in  Vir- 
ginia, and  never,  no,  never  can  I  forget  that  memorable 
evening.  In  the  first  act^  when  Virgin ius  says  to  Servia, 
'  Go  fetch  her  to  me,'  I  observed  all  around  me  silent  and 
intent  from  expectation.  It  was  not  till  the  deafening 
greetings  had  subsided,  that  I  raised  my  eyes,  and  then 
my  cherished  ideal  of  female  beauty  was  realized.  The 
chaste  dress  of  white  muslin — the  thick  dark  ringlets 
about  the  neck — the  simple  girdle — the  little  satin  band 
around  the  beautiful  brow — the  quiet,  gentle  and  touching 
simplicity  of  the  air  and  accents — all,  all  are  before  me. 
How  deeply  I  sympathised  in  the  indignation  of  Virgini- 
us — how  I  wept  when  he  recited  his  daughter's  praises! 
Unfortunately,  the  part  oflcilius  was  played  by  a  novice. 

11* 


126  THE    THESPIAN    SYREN. 

Had  it  been  otherwise,  perhaps  my  emotions,  overpower- 
ing as  they  were,  might  have  been  subdued  ;  but  while  all 
the  other  characters  satisfied  me,  his,  Virginia's  lover's, 
the  very  part  with  which  I  felt  myself  identified,  was 
shamefully  weak.  I  was  absolutely  maddened.  The  the- 
atre vanished  from  my  mind.  I  thought  of  nothing, 
cared  for  nothing  but  that  fair  young  creature,  and 
the  idea  possessed  me,  with  a  frightful  tenacity,  that 
1  should  one  day  be  the  true  Icilius.  As  the  play  pro- 
ceeded I  became  more  and  more  lost  in  this  idea.  It  was 
only  when  the  wretched  personator  of  the  Roman  lover 
came  on,  that  the  illusion  vanished.  And  then  a  bitter 
and  impatient  hatred  possessed  me.  I  longed  to  clutch 
the  young  man,  and  kurl  him  iiway.  And  when  the 
Roman  father,  in  solemn  and  touching  tones,  said — 

You  are  my  witnesses 
That  this  young  creature  1  present  to  you 
I  do  pronounce  my  profitably  cherished, 
And  most  deservedly  beloved  child — 
My  daughter  truly  fihal,  both  in  word 
And  act.  yet  even  more  in  act  than  word — 

I  tremblingly  ejaculated,  ^  JVe  are,  ice  are.^  A  lady  in  the 
box  thought  I  was  faint  and  proftered  her  salts.  I  took 
the  vial  mechanically^  but  was  not  recalled  ;  for  a  mo- 
ment after,  when  the  words  reached  my  enamoured  ear — 

You  will  be  all 
Her  father  has  been — added  unto  all 
A  lover  would  be  ? 

the  query  seemed  addressed  to  me  ;  unable  longer  to  con- 
tain what  rushed  to  my  lips,  I  rose,  sprang  upon  the  seat. 


THE    THESPIAN    SYREN.  127 

and  shouted,  '  I  will,  I  will' — but  the  words  were  broken 
— I  felt  a  hand  close  tightly  over  my  mouth,  and  myself 
lifted  into  the  lobby,  whence  I  was  hurried,  without  a 
word,  into  a  hackney  coach,  by  the  dim  lights  of  which  I 
discovered  Mr.  Connington,  who  had  firmly  grasped  one 
arm,  while  a  gentleman,  whom  I  recognised  as  an  occu- 
pant of  the  box,  held  the  other.  They  evidently  thought 
me  mad. 

'  This  adventure  was  a  salutary  and  timely  lesson. 
Never  again  did  I  betray  any  emotion.  But  I  felt  the 
more.  The  drana  which  I  had  fancied  would  produce 
such  mighty  effects  on  my  mind,  was  nothing  except  as 
it  was  associated  with  her.  O  my  friend,  you  can  have 
no  idea  of  what  mingled  ecstacy  and  bitterness  is  involv- 
ed in  the  love  of  an  object  of  public  admiration  !  Some- 
times I  would  have  given  worlds  if  Helen  had  been  a 
tradesman's  daughter,  living  in  honorable  obscurity,  and 
then  when  evening  came,  I  saw  her  personating  the 
grandest  female  characters  of  history,  arrayed  in  an  ideal 
costume,  uttering  the  noblest  sentiments,  and  appearing 
as  the  faithful,  the  self-denying,  the  beautiful  representa- 
tive of  her  sex  ;  and  then,  in  those  moments,  I  wished 
her  ever  to  be  the  same.  But  poor  Shakspeare  !  where 
was  my  reverence  for  him  ?  Strange  fantasy,  the  world 
would  have  thought,  had  I  written  anew  commentary  on 
his  tragedies,  to  declare  that  the  most  eloquent  line  in  Ro- 
meo and  Juliet  was  Lady  Capulet's,  «  Nurse,  where's  my 
daughter?  call  her  forth  to  me' — and  in  Othello's  speech, 
the  most  awakening  phrase  the  last,  «  Here  comes  my  la« 


128  THE    THESPIAN    SYREN. 

dy,  let  her  witness  it.'     Yet  such  they   were  to  me,  for 
they  called  first  upon  the  stage  Juliet  and  Desdemona. 

'  Many  weeks  flew  by,  and  my  time  was  ostensibly  di- 
vided between  Blackstone  and  the  drama.  My  kinsman 
frequently  applauded  this  rare  union  of  rational  and  ima- 
ginative studies.  *  Few  young  men,  cousin  Frank,'  he 
would  say,  *  choose  so  wisely.  I  perceive  you  did  not 
study  the  philosophy  of  the  human  mind,  at  St.  Andrews, 
in  vain.  Here  you  devote  the  day  to  legal  investigations, 
which,  questionless,  have  a  tendency  to  invigorate  the  un- 
derstanding, to  create  just  habits  of  thinking,  and  train 
the  judgment ;  then  your  evenings  are  given  to  the  great- 
est imaginative  amusement  of  this  utilitarian  age.  You 
cultivate  a  taste  for  the  drama.  Well,  well,  cousin,  we'll 
make  a  fine  fellow  of  you  yet.'  In  these  remarks  Mr. 
Connington  would  coincide,  neutralizing  his  praises 
with  the  observation  that  Mr.  Graham's  dramatic  critic, 
isms  were,  somehow  or  other,  more  vague  and  less  to  the 
purpose,  than  before  he  attended  the  theatre.'  Neither 
of  these  sage  observers  of  human  nature,  however,  had 
the  least  idea  of  the  true  state  of  the  case.  And,  indeed, 
it  was  not  till  late  that  I  myself  discovered  with  wonder 
which  partook  strangely  of  regret  and  gladness,  that  it 
was  not  Cordelia  or  Virginia  that  I  loved,  but  Helen 
Trevor. 

IV. 

« Hitherto  my  love  had  been  ideal.  Personal  inter- 
course  had  not  revealed  to  me  the  imperfections  of  the 
fair  Thespian. — Report  spoke  highly  of  her  character, 
and  the   earnest  approbation  of  the  public  sufficiently 


THE    THESPIAN    SYREN.  129 

indicated  her  professional  genius.  Strange  as  the 
remark  would  seem  to  a  mere  worldly  reasoner,  you 
my  friend,  will  understand  me,  when  I  assert  that 
few  attachments  excelled  mine  in  real  and  beautiful  senti- 
ment. It  was  much  like  the  love  which  we  know  ardent 
men  have  cherished  for  a  portrait,  a  statue,  or  the  being 
of  their  dreams. — Whatever  the  object  of  my  affections, 
in  reality,  was — however  tainted  with  the  alleged  evil  in- 
fluences of  her  pursuit,  however  intellectually  endowed  or 
morally  gifted — remember  that  as  presented  to  me,  she 
was  always  the  living  portrait  of  departed  worth,  the  reno- 
vated image  of  some  hallowed  being,  the  human  embodi- 
ment of  a  poet's  dream.  Naturally  favored  with  a  clas- 
sical  species  of  womanly  beauty,  displaying  manners  in 
which  feminine  grace  and  modesty  struggled  with  a  vivid 
conception  of  the  part  she  was  representing — you  cannot 
wonder  that  a  hallow  of  romance  was  thrown  around  the 
person  of  my  idol.  1  never  saw  her  but  as  the  personator 
of  virtue.  No  other  parts  were  adapted  to  her  talents. 
And  thus,  to  my  ardent  fancy,  she  became  the  personifi. 
cation  of  all  that  was  good,  and  beautiful,  and  true. 

*  It  was  not  in  human  nature  to  be  long  content  with 
such  a  semi-interchange  of  sympathy.  Alas  !  the  thought 
struck  me,  all  at  once,  that  there  had  been  no  interchange, 
that  my  heart  had  been  given  to  one  who  knew  me  not — 
that  I  was  no  more  to  the  Thespian  than  the  multitude 
who  nightly  witnessed  her  performance.  I  felt  foolishly 
conscious  of  my  wandering  moods.  I  resolved,  after 
long  and  troubled  musing,  to  come  face  to  face  with  the 
admired   actress.     And  yet  I  feared  to  adventure.     The 


130  THE    TUESPIAN    SYREN. 

charm  might  be  dissolved,  or  it  might  be  confirmed. 
What  then  1  I  should,  at  least,  know  my  fate.  Stripped 
of  the  adventitious  aid  of  her  profession,  she  might  prove 
uninteresting.  And  then — I  laughed  wildly  at  the 
thought — I  should  be  free  !  Yet,  in  a  moment  I  discard- 
ed the  idea.  If  I  have  been  in  bondage  this  month  past, 
thought  I,  then  let  me  be  a  slave  forever.  It  seemed  to 
me  easier  to  die  a  victim  to  imaginary  wo,  than  to  return 
again  to  barren  studies  or  common  cares.  My  resolu- 
tion taken,  I  grew  impatient,  yet  never  suffered  myself 
to  think  of  what  1  was  about  to  do,  without  realizing  that 
awe  with  which  the  German  dramatist  says  all  mortals 
must  '  grasp  the  urn  of  destiny.' 

« Capital,  capital !'  exclaimed  Mr.  Connington,  one 
morning,  at  the  hreakfast-table,  as  belaid  down  the  Post 
and  resumed  his  muffin.  '  What  is  it  V  inquired  my 
cousin,  taking  up  the  paper.  *  Why,  an  excellent  critic- 
ism on  the  Portia  we  saw  Monday  night.'  *  Ah  !  signed 
F.  G.,  too — who  can  that  heV  'Who  should  it  be  but 
Frank  Graham  V  asked  the  dramatist,  his  eye  brightening 
at  the  discovery.  I  could  not  deny  the  authorship.  Mr. 
Connington  hastily  swallowed  his  last  cup  of  tea,  and  as 
he  left  the  room,  with  a  significant  nod,  remarked — 
<  Well  done,  master  Frank  ;  she  shall  know  it,  too  ;  she 
ehall,  I  declare.'  I  was  after  him  in  an  instant.  '  My 
dear  Mr.  Connington,'  said  I,  '  pray  be  careful.  If  you 
choose  to  force  this  hasty  notice  upon  the  attention  of 
Miss ;  do  it  in  a  way  which  shall  impress  her  favor- 
ably as  to  the  author.  See,  see,  my  friend,  that  I  am  not 
meiged  in  her  mind  with  the  herd  of  coxcomb  admirers 


I 


THE    THESPIAN    SYREN.  131 

whom  I  am  sure  she  despises.'  The  energy  with  which 
I  spoke  astonished  him,  but  recovering  quickly  from  his 
surprise,  he  replied,  '  Why,  look  you,  my  young  man  ; 
the  literary  editor  of  this  paper  is  the  best  friend  her 
family  ever  had  ;  I  mean  he  shall  tell  her.  And  should 
you  like  to  know  her,  Frank?  I'll  ask  him  to  introduce 
you.  What  say  V  I  could  scarcely  speak  from  agitation; 
So  near  the^object  of  my  wishes  ?  It  seemed  impossible. 
Clinging  to  Mr.  Connington's  arm,  I  accompanied  him 
down  to  the  last  step,  succeeding  finally  in  hurriedly  sig- 
nifying my  assent.  I  was  lost  in  joyful  surprise,  from 
which  I  was  aroused  by  my  cousin's  voice  reprimanding 
the  porter  for  leaving  the  street  door  open,  and  hastened 
in,  to  prepare  for  the  expected  interview. 

'  That  long  forenoon  passed  heavily  enough.  Not  an 
iota  of  legal  knowledge  did  it  bring  me.  The  dinner 
hour  came.  I  longed  to  know  if  Mr.  Connington  had 
seen  the  editor ;  but  the  conversation,  for  the  first  time 
since  my  arrival  in  Edinburgh,  turned  upon  foreign  poli- 
tics, and  argument  ensued.  I  thought  it  inexpressibly 
tedious.  My  abstraction  was  noticed,  which  I  did  not 
regret,  since  it  relieved  my  suspense.  '  Frank,'  said  the 
dramatist,  '  your  wits  seem  a  wool-gathering.  Rally, 
man  ! — you  're  a  critic,  you  know.  I  'm  sorry  my  edi- 
torial  friend  has  gone  to  Glasgow  for  a  fortnight.  I  saw 
him  this  morning,  just  as  he  was  starting.  Give  my 
regards  to  Mr.  Graham,'  said  he ;  *  I  hope  to  form  his 
acquaintance  on  my  return — and  then,  as  you  say  he's 

really  a  fine  fellow — I'll  introduce  him  to  Miss ;  a 

thing  I  would  not  do  for  many  young  men. '  The  lady' 


132  THE    THESPIAN    SYREN. 

has  no  time  to  waste,  and  hates  promiscuous  acquain- 
tances.' I  was  terribly  disappointed.  A  fortnight's  de- 
lay seemed  an  age.  A  proposal  of  my  cousin  suggested 
consolation. — '  Frank,'  said  he,  '  I  want  you  to  know 
my  friend  Bouvier  the  composer  ;  he  has  a  sanctum  near 
the  painting-room  of  the  theatre — we'll  go  up  and  see 
him  to  night,  between  the  acts.' 

'  The  platforms  extending  over  the  wings,  above  the 
stage  are  called  the  flies.  They  command  a  view  of  the 
actors  and  the  orchestra.  It  was  necessary  to  cross  these, 
on  our  way  to  the  composer's  studio.  I  looked  down  a 
moment  as  we  passed,  and  was  delighted  to  find  that  while 
the  stage  was  completely  under  my  cognizance,  I  myself 
was  invisible  to  the  performers,  unless  indeed  they  should 
take  great  pains  to  spy  me  out.  I  determined  to  become 
intimate  with  the  musical  occupant  of  this  curious  region, 
that  I  might  at  will  come  hither,  and,  unseen,  behold  the 
Thespian.  Mr.  Bouvier,  upon  my  kinsman's  favorable 
representation  of  my  talents,  begged  me  to  write  the 
words  adapted  to  some  opera  music  he  was  preparing. 
And  thus  was  I  unexpectedly  furnished  with  a  reasonable 
excuse  for  frequenting  the  vicinity  of  the  hallowed  scene 
of  my  favorite  labors. 

*  The  next  day,  at  about  noon — the  hour  I  had  ascer- 
tained she  would  be  at  rehearsal,  I  closed  a  huge  volume 
of  commentaries,  snatched  up  my  hat,  and,  with  a  beating 
heart,  hastened  to  the  theatre.  I  entered  the  private  door, 
passed  through  the  corridors,  by  the  range  of  dressing- 
rooms,  and,  to  my  joy,  encountered  no  one  until  I  arrived 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  where  stood  a  knot  of  carpenters, 


THE    THESPIAN    SYREN.  133 

planning  some  stage  device.  They  stared  a  little  at  my 
appearance.  *  Where  is  Mr.  Bouvier's  rooni  V  I  inquired. 
*This  way,  sir,'  said  one  of  the  men,  conducting  me 
across  the  apartment  to  a  little  door.  The  moment  he 
retired,  I  gently  closed  it  behind  me,  and  found  myself 
alone  upon  the  flies.  It  was  sometime  before,  in  the  kind 
of  twilight  which  prevailed,  I  could  distinctly  behold  the 
scene  upon  the  stage.  Near  the  foot-lights  stood  a  small 
table,  upon  which  three  or  four  candles  were  burning 
amid  a  mass  of  papers,  two  or  three  books,  and  a  standish. 
Here  sat  a  portly  man  who,  I  afterwards  learned,  was  the 
prompter  ;  beside  him  was  a  lad  technically  denomina- 
ted the  call-boy  ;  and  standing  about  in  groups,  pacing  in 
couples  to  and  fro,  or  ranged  in  order  and  reading  their 
several  parts,  were  the  performers.  It  was  only  now  and 
then  that  a  phrase  or  two  stole  up  to  my  ear  from  the 
voices  below,  but  the  tones  familiar  to  my  dreams  arose 
not. — Suddenly  the  readers  paused  and  looked  round,  as 
if  a  new  personage  should  appear.  The  prompter  whis- 
pered to  the  urchin  at  his  side,  and  the  boy  ran  towards 
the  green-room,  shouting  the  name  that  was  to  me  so 
sacred.  Presently  the  Thespian  entered.  I  saw  her  for 
the  first  time  in  the  ordinary  habit  of  her  sex.  Her  dress 
was  simple,  but  becoming  in  the  extreme.  Her  manner 
of  greeting  the  performers,  and  their  obvious  deference 
towards  her,  confirmed  me  in  the  idea  I  had  formed  of 
her  lady-like  demeanor  in  private  life.  Hearing  some  one 
approach,  I  glided  into  Mr.  Bouvier's  room.  But  to  this 
post  of  observation  I  daily  repaired.  Thence  I  watched 
every  movement  and  caught  every  tone  of  the  Thespian 

12 


134  THE    THESPIAN    SYREN. 

0  how  fleetly  sped  the  hours  as  I  leaned  in  watchful  re- 
verie over  the  old  oaken  beam,  and  gazed  down  upon  the 
rehearsals  !  The  superiority  of  my  charmer  among  her 
mates,  her  self-possessed  dignity  under  the  trying  circum- 
stances of  her  lot — I  saw  and  marked  from  my  eerie,  and 
fondly  remembered  ever.  Sometimes  I  was  tempted  to 
spring  down  into  the  midst  of  the  group  who  were  bless- 
ed with  her  presence.  At  such  moments  1  turned  aside 
and  paced  the  platform,  then  looked  down  again,  and 
wrestled  with  my  impatience  till  she  departed,  and  then 
hurried  into  the  street  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  beautiful 
figure,  as  it  glided  through  the  neighboring  thoroughfares 
to  her  home. 

<  The  fortnight  elapsed  ;  the  editor  returned.  It  was  a 
fine,  clear  morning — I  remember  it  as  if  it  were  to-day. 

1  was  earlier  ihan  usual  at  my  post,  and  judged,  from  the 
aspect  of  things  below,  that  a  quarter  of  an  hour  would 
elapse  before  the  performers  would  assemble.  Helen 
was  there.  I  was  at  the  office  of  the  Post  in  a  trice. 
*Is  Mr.  —  in?  I  breathlessly  asked.  *  He  is,'  was  the 
reply,  and  I  was  shown  into  the  inner  room. 

'Good  morning,  sir,'  I  began.  "I  am  Mr.  Graham, 
the  gentleman  whom  you  kindly  promised  to  introduce  to 
Miss .  She  is  at  the  theatre  now,  sir;  the  re- 
hearsal has  not  commenced.  Can  you  conveniently  ac- 
company me  at  once  V 

«  Certainly,  sir,  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  I  have  to 
see  the  lady  myself.  I  brought  a  letter  from  her  brother 
in  Glasgow.' 

*  How  we  got  to  the  theatre,  I  cannot  tell.     One  over- 


THE    THESPIAN    SYREN.  135 

powering  idea  possessed  me.  I  believed  this  introduction 
was  the  turning  point  in  my  destiny.  I  answered  only 
in  monosyllables  to  the  editor's  warm  eulogiums  of  the 
Thespian,  and  ran  along  almost  dragging  him,  despite 
his  half  articulated  protestations  against  the  pedestrianism 
of  country-bred  Scotchmen.  Emerging  from  the  glare  of 
mid-day  into  the  shadowy  gloom  of  the  theatre,  we  stop- 
ped to  take  breath  and  accustom  our  dimmed  vision  to  the 
change.  My  companion  taking  my  hand,  drew  me  be- 
tween two  scenes  in  about  the  centre  line  of  the  stage, 
and  there  we  began  to  observe. 

*Is  she  here?'  I  asked  faintly.  Just  then  Helen  ap- 
peared, slowly  walking  up  the  stage,  intent  upon  a  manu- 
script. She  was  dressed  in  a  simple  gown  of  black  silk, 
and  over  her  neck  was  carelessly  flung  a  shawl  of  richly 
wroui^ht  lace  of  the  same  color.  As  she  walked,  the  light 
from  a  very  high  upper  window  fell  directly  upon  her  fea- 
tures; and  ever  and  anon,  she  lifted  her  full  expressive 
eye  from  the  paper,  and  repeated  to  herself,  as  if  to  make 
trial  of  her  memory.  When  she  came  parallel  with 
us,  my  companion  whispered  her  name.  She  turned  to- 
wards us  ;  he  stepped  forward,  and  was  instantly  recog- 
nized and  kindly  greeted.  A  few  expressions  passed  be- 
tween them  among  which  such  words  as — 'news,'  '  cold,' 
'Glasgow,'  and  others  of  an  import  so  common-place 
that  they  seemed  to  mock  the  solemn  interest  of  my  feel- 
ings, when  my  companion  beckoned  me  forward.  I 
approached  with  my  hat  in  my  hand  and  my  heart  in  my 

throat.     *Mis3 ,  this   is  the  gentleman  of  whom  I 

spoke  to  you, — Mr.   Francis  Graham,  of    i  ■      .'      <I 


136 


THE    THESPIAN    SYREN. 


am  happy  to  see  you,  Mr.  Graham,'  returned  the  Thes- 
pian, with  a  smile  that  thrilled  me,  and  an  accent  that 
seemed  heavenly.  I  bowed  repeatedly.  I  looked  my 
veneration  and  tenderness.     I  could  not  speak. 

V. 

*  I  had  passed  the  Rubicon,  and  thenceforth  obeyed 
the  impulse  of  my  feelings  fearlessly  and  freely.  Every 
night  found  me  behind  the  wings.  The  best  oranges 
that  searching  could  procure  in  Edinburgh,  the  fairest 
roses  of  the  public  gardens,  did  I  lay,  as  votive  offerings, 
on  the  shrine  of  my  idolatry.  Five  memorable  times  I 
attended  the  Thespian  to  her  home.  On  three  memora- 
ble evenings  I  sat  beside  her,  in  the  midst  of  her  family. 
I  was  abundantly  content.  If  any  thing  had  been  neces- 
sary to  deepen  my  interest,  it  was  afforded  by  the  acquain- 
tance I  now  formed  with  her  charactei\  She  followed 
her  profession  uncomplainingly,  for  the  sake  of  those  de- 
pendent for  support  upon  her  toils.  During  a  morning 
walk  to  Salisbury  crags,  I  resolved  on  the  succeeding 
night  to  offer  my  hand  to  the  Thespian.  I  determined 
to  marry  her  openly  ;  to  lead  her  before  the  public  on  her 
farewell  benefit.  As  I  strolled  back  to  the  city,  I  was 
composing  the  poetical  address  which  I  determined  she 
should  speak  on  this  occasion,  when  ihe  door  of  my  law 
office,  which  I  had  mechanically  reached,  interrupted  my 
muse.  I  gravely  entered,  took  down  the  proper 
volume  in  course,  opened  it  at  the  right  place,  and  seat- 
ing myself  before  the  extended  page,  fixed  my  eyes  iu- 


THE    THESPIAN    SYREN.  137 

tently  upon  it,  and  was  soon  lost  in — dreaming  of  Helen 
Trevor. 

'  It  was  a  lovely  afternoon,  the  one  preceding  the  even- 
ing of  my  intended  declaration.  I  was  in  my  chamber, 
cutting  the  dead  leaves  from  some  wild  flowers,  just 
brought  me  from  the  country.  Helen  was  to  play  Ophe- 
lia that  night,  and  these  were  destined  for  her  •=  fennells, 
columbines,  and  rue,  her  violets  and  daises.'  There 
was  a  noise  in  the  passage.  A  sudden  foreboding  op- 
pressed me.  The  door  slowly  opened,  and  in  walked 
my  old  aunt,  the  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in 
the  University  at  St.  Andrews,  my  cousin  and  Mr.  Con- 
nington.  There  was  an  awful  gravity  in  their  counte- 
nances. The  flowers  dropped  from  my  hands  ;  I  was 
aghast  with  astonishment  and  anxiety.  The  intruders  si- 
lently seated  themselves.  *  Nephew,'  said  my  aunt,  in 
the  old  lecture  tone,  but  with  unwonted  severity  of  man- 
ner, «I  need  not  ask  for  whom  those  foolish  weeds  are  de- 
signed ;  I  know  all,  sir.  The  disrespect  you  have  shown 
for  the  hon(ir  of  your  family,  my  honored  kinsman  has  in- 
formed me  of.  1  warned  him  never  to  reprimand  you, 
but  always  to  notify  me  of  your  misdemeanors.  This  he 
has  done,  in  season,  happily,  to  prevent  farther  mischief. 
Your  learned  friend,  here, — and  she  pointed  to  the  pro- 
fessor— starts  to-morrow  for  France.  We  have  decided 
that  he  shall  be  the  companion  of  your  travels.  Prepare 
to  accompany  him,  sir.' 

*  Suffice  it   to   add,  that  I  was  forced  from  Edinburgh 
without  being  permitted  to    see    the   Thespian.       Nearly 
five  years  have  I  been  on  the  'continent.     Knowledo^e  I 
12* 


138  THE    THESPIAN    SYREN. 

have  devotedly  pursued,  but  I  was  born  to  live  and  joy 
in  Jeeling.  I  have  never  entered  a  theatre  since  my  de- 
parture from  home,  till  to  night,  the  anniversary  of  my 
< first  play.'  I  ventured,  and  you  saw  how  I  was  over- 
come, ay,  and  lured  into  repeating,  for  the  first  time  dur- 
ing my  exile,  the  tale  you  have  so  patiently  heard.' 

*  Receive  my  earnest  thanks,  and  all  my  sympathy,'  I 
replied  ;  <  but  what  became  of  the  Thespian  V — « She  went 
to  America,  and  report  says  she  is  there  married.' 

*One  query  more  ere  you  go' — for  he  had  risen  to  de- 
part— ^deep  as  is  your  grief,  you  evidently  have  a  theory 
that  supports  you.  I  have  seen  you  cheerful — what  is  it  ? 
He  smiled,  and  taking  a  miniature  edition  of  Childe  Ha- 
rold from  his  pocket,  said,  *  It  is  written  here ;'  then 
grasping  my  hand,  he  repeated  with  great  force  and  pa- 
thos, the  following  lines  : 

Existence  may  be  borne,  and  the  doep  root 

Of  life  and  sufferance  make   its  firm  abode  ' 

In  bare  and  desolated  bosoms  :  mute 

The  camel  labors  with  the  heaviest  load, 

And  the  wolf  dies  in  silence  :  not  bestowed 

In  vain  should  such  examples  be  ;  if  they, 

Things  of  ignoble  or  of  savage  mood, 

Endure  and  shrink  not.  we  of  nobler  clay 

May  temper  it  to  bear,— it  is  but  for  a  day. 


iM  O  D  E  N  A  . 


"  There  are  those  who  lord  it  o'er  their  fellow-men 
With  most  prevaiUng  tinsel." — 

Keats. 

Of  all  the  strong  holds  of  despotism  at  present  exist- 
ing in  Italy,  Modena  excites  in  the  mind  of  a  republican 
the  greatest  impatience.  The  narrow  limits  of  the  state 
are  in  ludicrous  contrast  with  the  tyrannical  propensi- 
ties of  the  government.  One  cannot  approach  the  neat 
little  capital  and  gaze  through  the  vine-ranges  of  the  con- 
tiguous plains,  to  the  distant  and  snow-clad  Appenines, 
without  dwelling  regretfully  upon  the  political  condition 
of  a  people,  upon  whose  domain  nature  has  lavished  her 
resources  with  a  richness  that  would  seem  to  ensure  their 
prosperity  and  happiness.  The  conduct  of  the  Modenese 
during  the  revolutionary  excitement,  which  agitated  this 
part  of  Italy  several  years  since,  and  which  is  now  allud- 
ed to  with  a  significant  shrug,  as  Vaffare  dl  trejiVuno,  and 
the  sufferings  consequent  upon  its  failure,  are  such  also 
as  to  elicit  the  hearty  sympathy  of  every  true  friend  of  lib- 


140 


MODENA. 


era!  principles.  The  Grand  Duke,  when  compelled  to  fly 
under  the  escort  of  the  single  battalion  ofhis  troops,  who 
mained  faithful  to  him,  assured  one  ofhis  old  domestics, 
who  expressed  much  commiseration  on  the  occasion,  that 
in  three  days  he  would  return  and  quell  the  little  distur- 
bance. For  more  than  a  month,  however,  the  capital  re- 
mained in  the  possession  of  the  people,  who  displayed 
during  this  exciting  epoch,  a  singular  respect  for  individ- 
ual rights,  and  maintained  a  degree  of  order  and  good 
faith,  worthy  of  a  more  fortunate  issue.  Even  the  priests 
assumed  the  tri-coloured  cockade  ;  and  among  the  armed 
citizens  were  many  of  the  sturdy  peasants  from  the  neigh- 
boring hills.  And  when  the  fugitive  prince  returned  from 
Vienna,  at  the  head  of  fifteen  thousand  Austrian  troops,  a 
large  body  of  the  national  guard  displayed  the  most  com- 
mendable bravery  in  defending  those  of  the  revolutionists 
who  were  compelled  to  flee,  conducting  them  in  safety, 
and  not  without  several  severe  skirmishes,  to  Ancona, 
whence  they  embarked  for  different  ports  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean and  Adriatic.  A  series  of  executions,  imprison- 
ments and  confiscations  followed,  and  the  traveller  con- 
tinually meets  with  the  unhappy  effects  of  this  impotent 
attempt  to  establish  liberty,  in  the  number  of  impoverish- 
ed individuals,  the  restricted  privileges  of  all  classes,  and 
the  increased  rigor  of  the  police.  The  manner  in  which 
the  plot  was  discovered  was  rather  curious.  One  of  the 
conspirators  was  arrested  on  suspicion  of  theft,  and  think- 
ing all  was  known,  spoke  so  freely  of  the  plan  and  per- 
sons pledged  to  its  support,  that  every  important  detail 
was  soon  revealed. 


MODENA.  141 

After  this  abortive  revolution,  no  political  event  has 
agitated  the  north  of  Italy,  until  the  unexpected  occu- 
pation of  Ancona  by  the  French.  An  occurrence  which 
recently  took  place  there  was  the  occasion  of  much  mer- 
riment. It  appears  that  among  the  French  officers,  was 
one  who  prided  himself  greatly  upon  his  skill  with  the 
broad-sword.  In  order  to  give  scope  to  this  talent,  he 
had  deliberately  bullied  nearly  all  his  colleagues,  besides 
a  large  number  of  Italian  gentlemen  into  quarrels,  and 
having  invariably  come  off  triumphant,  his  arrogance  was 
proportionably  increased.  At  length  weary  of  the  peace- 
able life  he  led  and  impatient  for  a  new  victim,  he  entered 
the  principal  caffe  in  Ancona,  one  evening  when  it  was 
fully  occupied,  and  for  want  of  a  better  subject,  fixed  his 
regard  upon  an  athletic  and  handsome  priest  who  was 
quietly  reading  at  a  table.  Monsieur  took  a  seat  by  his 
side.  The  priest  soon  after  called  for  a  cup  of  coffee, 
which  the  officer  immediately  took  possession  of.  The 
latter  not  doubting  it  was  done  through  inadvertance,  re- 
newed the  order ;  the  Frenchman  eagerly  grasped  the  se- 
cond cup  also.  Without  losing  his  patience  in  the  least, 
the  priest  for  the  third  time  repeated  his  demand,  and 
again  his  tormentor  unceremoniously  appropriated  the 
beverage  to  himself.  By  this  time,  the  singular  behavior 
of  the^  duellist,  had  attracted  the  attention  of  every  one 
present ;  and  the  priest  in  an  elevated  but  calm  tone,  turn- 
ing to  his  tormentor,  exclaimed,  «'  How  unworthy  a  man 
of  true  courage,  to  insult  one  whose  profession  forbids  re- 
sentment !"  The  officer  started  to  his  feet  in  a  rage — 
"  Priest,  or  no  priest,"  said  he,  *<  you  have  called   me  a 


142  MODENA. 

coward  and  I  demand  satisfaction."  The  priest  had  now 
also  risen  and  folding  his  robes  about  him,  with  digni- 
fied coolness  he  addressed  his  adversary.  *'  Sir,  you 
shall  be  satisfied.  I  believe  among  those  of  your  profes- 
sion, it  is  customary  for  the  challenged  party,  to  choose 
the  place,  time,  and  weapon.  Accordingly,  sir,  let  the 
place  be  here,  the  time  noii\  and  the  weapon  f/i/'s,"  and 
with  a  single  blow  he  hurled  him  upon  the  floor  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  The  crest-fallen  bully  was  glad  to 
make  his  escape,  amid  the  jeers  of  the  company. 

A  few  plain  tomb-stones,  in  an  enclosure  just  before 
reachiug  one  of  the  gatecs,  indicate  the  Hebrew  burying 
ground.  The  sight  of  these  isolated  graves  but  too  tru- 
ly illustrates  the  relentless  persecution  which  still  follows 
the  Jews  in  Italy — a  spirj^  which  was  manifested  with  no 
little  severity  by  the  reinstated  Duke  ofModena.  It  hav- 
ing  been  ascertained  that  four  of  the  fraternity  had  taken 
an  humble  part  in  the  popular  movement,  a  fine  of  six  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  was  levied  on  the  whole  sect,  and 
their  number  being  very  small  in  the  Modenese  territory, 
the  payment  of  the  tribute  reduced  a  large  portion  of  the 
Israelites  to  absolute  beg'^ary.  A  still  more  affecting  in- 
stance  of  the  penalties  inflicted  upon  the  liberals  of  Mode- 
na,  came  under  my  observation.  In  the  carriage  which 
conveyed  me  from  the  little  duchy,  was  a  lady  of  middle 
age,  the  expression  of  whose  countenance  was  so  indica- 
tive of  recent  affliction,  as  to  awaken  immediate  sympathy, 
I  remarked,  too,  that  peculiar  manner  which  evinces  supe- 
riority to  suffering,  or  rather  a  determination  to  meet  op- 
posing circimstances  with  decision  of  character  and  mo- 


I 


MODENA.  143 

ral  courage.  No  one  who  has  ever  had  occasion  to  no- 
tice the  uprising  of  a  woman's  spirit,  after  the  first  burst 
of  passionate  sorrow  over  the  mysterious  destiny,  so  truly 
described  by  one  of  the  sweetest  of  female  poets — 

'  to  make  idols  and  to  find  them  clay,' 

can  ever  mistake  the  manner  to  which  I  alkide.  It  is  ev- 
ident in  the  calm  attention  with  which  the  routine  of  life's 
duties  are  fulfilled,  as  if  they  no  longer  interested  the  feel- 
ings, but  were  simply  dictated  by  necessity.  It  is  seen  in 
the  long  reveries  which  occupy  the  intervals  of  active  en- 
gagements ;  and  it  is  to  be  read  at  a  glance  in  the  tran- 
quil tone,  the  changeless  expression,  and  the  mild  com- 
posure which  touch  with  something  of  sanctity,  the  person 
of  one  whose  existence  is  bereft  of  i(s  chief  attraction.  I 
was  soon  persuaded  that  such  was  the  case,  with  the  lady 
who  sat  beside  me  in  the  Modenese  voiiure.  She  an- 
swered my  questions  with  thai  ready  affability  which  be- 
longs to  the  better  class  of  Italians,  and  with  the  quick  in- 
telligence of  a  cultivated  mind^  For  some  time  our  con- 
versation was  of  a  general  nature,  until  I  learned  that  the 
object  of  her  journey  was  to  remove  a  son  from  college, 
who,  for  some  years,  had  been  pursuing  his  studies  in 
Tuscany  This  led  us  to  speak  of  education — of  its  mo- 
mentuous  importance,  and  of  its  neglect  in  Italy.  I  re- 
marked that  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  prevailing  corruption 
of  manners  was  attributable  chiefly  to  the  want  of  good 
domestic  culture  ;  that  the  homes  of  the  land  were  not  the 
sanctuaries  for  the  mind  and  aflxjctions  they  should  be,  be- 
cause expediency  alone  was  the  basis  of  most  of  the  con- 


144  MODENA. 

nections.  '*  Signer,"  she  replied,  '« you  speak  truly,  and 
when,  ala?,  there  are  those  who  have  the  independence 
and  the  feeling  to  disregard  the  dominant  system,  and 
create  one  of  the  sacred  homes  which  you  say  grace  your 
native  land,  death  soon  severs  the  ties  which  were  too 
blessed  to  continue."  Tears  filled  her  eyes,  and  it  was 
long  before  she  recovered  her  equanimity  sufficiently  again 
to  engage  in  conversation.  I  subsequently  learned  that 
this  lady  was  the  widow  of  a  distinguished  scientific  pro- 
fessor of  Modena,  who  had  ardently  sympathised  in  the 
vain  attempt  of  his  countrymen  to  enfranchise  themselves 
from  the  trammels  of  despotism.  In  consequence  of  his 
prominence  as  a  man  of  letters,  it  became  necessary  for 
him  on  the  unsuccessful  termination  of  the  struggle,  to 
leave  the  state.  He  accordingly  fled  to  Corsica,  where 
he  soon  received  from  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany,  an 
invitation  to  visit  Florence,  and  the  ofl^er  of  a  valuable 
professorship.  >Vhen  this  became  known  to  the  Mode- 
nese  government,  he  was  informed  that  if  he  did  not  re- 
turn to  his  native  state,  his  property  would  be  confiscated  ; 
while  it  was  well  known  that  on  his  re-appearance  within 
the  precincts  of  the  duchy,  his  head  would  pay  the  forfeit 
of  his  attachment  to  freedom.  He  was,  therefore,  soon 
joined  by  his  family,  and  long  continued  to  perform  his 
duties  with  distinguished  success  at  Florence.  By  a  spe- 
cies of  compromise,  his  wite  enjoys  a  limited  portion  of 
her  just  income,  by  residing  most  of  the  year  upon  her  es- 
tates, the  remainder  going  to  increase  the  ducal  treasury. 
The  husband  had  died  a  short  time  previoiss,  and  his 
widow  was  then  returning  from   one   of  her  annual    so- 


MODENA.  145 

jourii3  amid  the  scenes  of  her  former  happiness,  a  requisi- 
tion to  which  parental  love  led  her  to  submit,  in  order  to 
preserve  the  already  invaded  rights  of  her  fatherless  chil- 
dren.  The  general  policy  of  the  Duke  of  Modena  accords 
with  this  spirit  of  petty  tyranny.  He  is  now  carrying  in- 
to execution  many  costly  projects,  some  of  which,  indeed, 
tend  to  embellish  the  city  ;  but  the  means  to  defray  them 
are  provided  by  taxes  as  contrary  to  the  spirit  of  social  ad- 
vancement, as  they  are  onerous  and  unwise.  It  is  suffi- 
cient to  mention  the  tribute  exacted  from  all  foreign  ar- 
tists, who  execute  works  at  the  quarries  of  Carrara,  a  meas- 
ure utterly  unworthy  an  enlightened  European  ruler  in 
the  nineteenth  century.  The  countenance  of  this  prince 
struck  me  as  altogether  accordant  with  his  character  ;  and 
the  manifest  servility  of  the  vocalists  at  the  court  opera-, 
was  something  new  and  striking  even  in  Italy.  It  was 
not  a  little  annoying,  too,  to  hear  in  that  splendid  sparti- 
to  of  the  Puritani — 

Suoni  la  tromba,  e  intrepido 

lo  pugnerai  da  forte  ; 
Bello  e  affrontar  la  raorte  ^ 

Gridando  liberta — 

which  thrills  like  the  spirit  of  freedom,  through  the  very 
heart,  the  word  loyalty  substituted  for  liberty. 

The  ducal  palace  of  Modena  is  truly  magnificent.  Un- 
fortunately the  grand  saloon  has  proved  unfit  for  the  fes- 
tive scenes  it  was  designed  to  witness,  from  the  power- 
ful echo  produced  by  its  lofty  and  vaulted  ceiling.  Music, 
and  even  the  voice  when  slightly  elevated,  awakens  such 
a  response  as  to  create  anything  but  an  harmonious  im- 

13 


146  MODENA. 

pression.    The  walls  of  the  splendid  range  of  apartments, 
of  which  this    elegant  hall    constitutes  the    centre,   are 
adorned  with  beautiful  frescos,  and  lined  with  the  richest 
paintings.       Among   the   latter,  is   a  fine  crucifixion  by 
Guido,  and  the  death  of  Abel   by  one  of  his  most  promis- 
ing pupils.     I  examined  this  picture  with  interest  when 
informed  that  the  author   died   very  young.     The  meek 
beauty  of  Abel's  face,  bowed  down  beneath  the  iron   hold 
of  the  first  murderer,  whose  rude   grasp    is  fiercely  fixed 
upon  his  golden  hair,  while  the  hand  of  the  victim  is  laid 
deprecatingly  upon  his  brother's  breast,   abounds   in  that 
expressive  contrast  which  is  so  prolific  a  source   of  true 
effect  in  art,  and  literature  and  life.     The  pleasing  im- 
pression derived  from  dwelling  upon  the  numerous  inte- 
resting paintings  here  collected,  is  somewhat  rudely  dis. 
pelled  when  one  emerges  from  th^^ palace  into  the  square, 
and  sees  the  soldiers  parading  before  the  gate,  and  artille- 
ry planted  in  the  piazza,  and  turns  his  thoughts  from  the 
ennobling  emblems  of  genius,  to  the    well  appointed  ma- 
chinery of  despostism. 

In  a  chamber  of  the  ancient  tower,  is  preserved  the  old 
wooden  bucket  which  is  said  to  have  been  the  occasion  of 
a  war  between  Bologna  and  Modena.  It  is  suspended 
by  its  original  chain  from  the  centre  of  the  wall,  and  is 
regarded  as  a  carious  and  valuable  relic,  having  been  im- 
mortalized by  Tassoni  in  his  celebrated  poem  La  Secchia 
Rapita.  My  memory,  however,  was  busy  with  another 
trophy  memorialized  in  modern  poetry.  I  remember 
hearing  a  gentleman  who  had  won  some  enviable  laurels 
in  the  field  of  letters,  declare  that  the  most  gratifying 


I 


MODENA.  147 

tribute  he  ever  received,  was  the  unaffected  admiration 
with  which  a  country  lass  regarded  him  in  a  stage-coach, 
after  discovering  that  he  was  the  author  of  a  few  verses 
which  had  found  their  way  into  the  reader  used  in  the 
public  school  she  attended.  This  class  book  was  the  first 
work  which  had  unveiled  to  the  ardent  mind  of  the  maid- 
en, the  sweet  mysteries  of  poetry,  and  this  particular 
piece  had  early  fascinated  her  imagination,  and  beea 
transferred  to  her  memory.  In  expressing  her  feelings 
to  the  poet,  she  assured  him  that  it  had  never  occurred  to 
her  that  the  author  of  these  familiar  lines  was  alive,  far  less 
that  he  was  so  like  other  men,  and,  least  of  all,  that  she 
should  evor  behold  and  talk  with  him.  It  seemed  to  her 
a  very  strange,  as  it  certainly  was  a  delightful  coincidsnce. 
And  such  is  the  universal  force  of  early  associations,  that 
we  all  more  or  less  share  the  feelings  of  this  unsophisticated 
girl ;  and  in  a  country  where  education  is  pursued  on  a  sys- 
tem which  is  prevalent  with  us,  many  minds  derive  impres- 
sions from  school-book  literature,  which  even  the  more 
ripened  taste  and  altered  vi^nvs  of  later  life,  cannot  efface. 
Often  have  I  thus  read-  with  delight  one  of  the  prettiest 
sketches  in  Roger's  Italy — 

"  If  ever  you  should  come  to  Modena, 
Stop  at  the  palace  near  the  Reggio  gate, 
Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  Orsini ; 
The  noble  garden  terrace  above  terrace, 
And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses, 
Will  long  detain  you,  but  before  you  go, 
Enter  the  house — forget  it  not  I  pray, — 
And  look  awhile  upun  a  picture  there. 
'Tis  of  a  lady  in  her  earliest  youtli,"  &c. 


148  MODENA. 

Little  did  I  think  in  the  careless  season  of  boyhood, 
that  the  opportunity  would  ever  be  afforded  me  of  follow- 
ing the  poet's  advice.  Yet  here  I  found  myself  in  Mo- 
dena,  and  it  seemed  to  me  like  an  outrage  upon  better 
feeling,  as  well  as  good  taste,  not  to  adopt  the  pleasant 
counsel  that  rang  in  my  ears,  as  if  the  kind-hearted  bank- 
er poet  inclined  his  white  locks  and  whispered  it  himself. 
I  lost  no  time,  therefore,  in  inquiring  for  this  interesting 
picture,  but  in  vain.  By  one  of  the  thousand  vicissitudes 
which  are  ever  changing  the  relics  of  Italy  to  the  eye  of 
the  traveller,  Ginevra's  portrait  had  been  removed  from 
its  original  position.  The  oldest  cicerone  in  the  place 
assured  me  that  he  had  ineffectually  endeavored  to  trace 
it.  It  was  evidently  a  sore  subject  with  him.  'Many 
an  English  traveller,  signer,'  said  he,  <has  asked  me 
about  this  picture,  and  again  and  again  have  I  labored  to 
discover  it.  It  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  dealer  in  such 
things,  who  does  not  remember  how  he  disposed  of  it.' 
So  I  was  obliged  to  rest  content  with  the  legend,  and 
imagine  the  countenance  of  her  whose  strangely  melan- 
choly fate  so  awed  the  fancy  of  roy  childhood. 


A  JOURNEY. 


'Tis  to  join  in  one  sensation 
Business  both  and  contemplation  ; 
Active  without  toil  or  stress, 
Passive  without  listlessness. 

Leigh  Hunt. 

Female  beauty  and  fine  weather  are,  by  no  means,  ev- 
ery-day  blessings  in  [taly  ;  but,  when  there  encountered, 
possess  a  magical  perfection,  which  at  once  explains  and 
justifies  all  the  eulogiums  bestowed  upon  the  land.  And 
it  is  the  conjunction  of  these  two  attractions,  which,  at 
some  happy  hour,  imparts  a  charmed  life  and  interest  to 
the  traveller's  experience.  One  of  the  last  of  these  fortu- 
nate  occasions  I  enjoyed,  while  traversing  that  beautiful 
new  road,  that  now  extends  the  whole  distance  from  Pisa 
to  Genoa,  sometimes  intersecting  a  fine  range  of  the  Ap- 
penines,  and  at  frequent  intervals,  following  the  shores  of 
the  Mediterranean.  It  was  a  cloudless  and  balmy  day. 
Around  us  were  the  mountains,  and  the  sea  far  away  to 
the  left,  visible  from  every  summit,  when  halting  at  a  post- 
house  by  the  road-side,  a  melody  suddenly  struck  our  ears 
13* 


150  A    JOURNEY. 

attuned,  as  it  were,  to  the  very  spirit  of  the  scene.  Mu- 
sic is  a  great  relief  to  the  soul,  when  filled  with  the  inspi- 
ration  of  Nature  ;  it  is  the  natural  language  of  sentiment, 
and  if  at  such  times,  its  breathings  unexpectedly  greet  us, 
they  are  doubly  grateful.  The  sweet  strain  which  we  lin- 
gered long  to  enjoy,  proceeded  from  two  peasant  girls, 
who  were  standing  just  within  the  threshold  of  a  neigh- 
boring  dwelling,  accompanying  themselves  with  a  guitar. 
They  were  gaily  arrayed  and  decked  with  flowers.  I 
have  seldom  seen  more  perfect  specimens  of  rustic  beauty. 
The  face  of  the  eldest,  indeed,  possessed  a  noble  grace 
which  would  have  adorned  a  court.  Her  features  were 
perfectly  regular,  and  seconded  her  music  by  the  most 
varying  expression.  .  Sometimes  one  voice  rose  in  a  clear, 
joyous  note,  and  then  both  mingled  in  a  quick,  chanting 
measure.  At  length  they  ceased  and  smilingly  sauntered 
up  the  highway.  We  inquired  the  meaning  of  this  con- 
cert, and  were  told  that  these  lovely  girls  were  celebrating 
the  return  of  May,  according  to  a  custom  in  that  region. 
The  vocalists  are  generally  selected  for  their  beauty  and  fine 
voices,  and  pass  many  days,  early  in  the  month,  going 
from  house  to  house,  to  pour  forth  their  hymns.  In  such 
usages  there  is  refreshment.  They  prove  that  the  poetic 
element  has  not  died  out.  How  true  to  our  better  nature 
is  this  going  forth  of  the  young  and  fair  to  welcome  with 
grateful  songs,  the  advent  of  spring  ! 

On  this  route  I  fell  in  with  an  unusual  number  of  the 
old  soldiers  of  Napoleon.  I  have  often  been  struck  with 
the  enthusiasm,  with  which  many  of  the  Italians  allude 
to  his  genius  and  fate.     A  priest  once  hearing  me  ven- 


A    JOURNEY.  161 

ture  some  observations  respecting    him,   which  in  his 
view,  were  not  quite  orthodox,   drew  me  aside,  and  with 
the  utmost  solemnity,  assured  me  it  was  very  sacrilegious 
to  speak  so  confidently  of  one  who  had  been  commission- 
ed by  Heaven  to  consolidate   Europe,  to    destroy  the  ty- 
rants of  Italy,  and  unite  in  a  happy  and  prosperous  whole 
her   divided   and  oppressed    states — objects,  he     added, 
which  would  have  been  admirably  accomplished,  if  Satan 
kad    not  tempted  Buonaparte   into   Russia.     A  Genoese 
captain,  who   had  made  several  voyages  to   the  East,  told 
me  that  his  ship  touched  at  St.  Helena,  the  very  day  Na- 
poleon died.     He  was  surprised  not  to  hear  the  usual  gun, 
and  after  waiting  several  hours  without  receiving  the  cus- 
tomary  visit  of  inspection,  went  on  shore,  and  when  on 
returning,  he  communicated  the  tidings,  m^ery  sailor  wept ! 
In  Romagna,  I    travelled   several  days,  in   the  wake  of  a 
voiture  containing  a  remarkably  agreeable  party ;  and  we 
invariably  dined  together  on  the  road.     During  the  even- 
ing, there  was  always  considerable  pleasant  conversation, 
but  one  old  gentleman,  who    was    exceedingly   affable  to 
every  one  else,  treated  me  with  the  most  marked  reserve. 
I  puzzled  myself,  in  vain,   to   account  for  his    conduct, 
when  on  the  last  evening'  we  were  together,  he  happened 
to  become  engaged  in  a  controversy  with  one  of  the  com- 
pany in  regard  to  some  law  or  custom  of  England.     Af- 
ter a  warm  discussion,  he    appealed   to  me  in   support  of 
his  assertions.     I  was  obliged  to   confess  my  utter  igno- 
rance of  the  matter.     He  regarded  me  with  the  utmost 
surprise,  and  observed  that  he  could  not  understand  how 
an  Englishman  could  be  unacquainted  with   the  subject. 


152  A    JOURNEY. 

m 

I  assured  him  I  had  no  claims  to  the  title.  He  seem- 
ed very  iricredulous  and  begged  to  know  of  what  country 
I  was.  The  mention  of  America,  seemed  to  awaken  as 
lively  emotions  in  his  heart  as  in  that  of  orator  Phillips. 
His  expression  wholly  changed.  Throwing  back  his 
cloak  and  deliberately  rising  from  his  chair,  he  approach- 
ed me  with  an  air  of  the  greatest  earnestness;  "Sir,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  forgive  me.  I  have  taken  you  for  an  En- 
glishman, and  have  never  been  able  to  endure  one  of  that 
nation,  since  its  dastardly  conduct  towards  Napoleon,  un- 
der whom  I  served  many  years.  An  American  !  ah  !  that 
is  very  different.  In  my  garden  at  Parma,  I  have  placed 
two  busts,  which  I  daily  contemplate  with  perfect  admira- 
tion,— Michael  Angelo,  and  George  Washington  ;"  so 
saying,  he  embraced  me  most  cordially,  and  during  the  re- 
mainder of  our  journey,  atoned  for  his  previous  silence, 
by  the  most  devoted  courtesy. 

At  about  noon  we  reached  Massa.  This  is  one  of  the 
most  picturesque  ofthe  minor  Italian  towns.  It  is  near- 
ly surrounded  with  high  mountains,  covered  thickly  with 
olive-trees.  Below  lies  a  pretty  vale  whose  wild  fertility 
is  increased  by  a  swift  stream  coursing  through  it.  On 
the  hill  above  is  an  old  fortress,  and  on  the  shelves  ofthe 
mountain  a  cluster  of  houses.  An  inscription  garlanded 
with  weeds,  on  the  gates,  indicates  its  Roman  origin. 
The  principal  street  is  completely  grass-grown,  and  as  I 
wandered  there  at  noon-tide,  looking  up  at  the  immense  go- 
vernment-house, so  out  of  proportion  to  the  town,  the  echo 
of  my  footsteps  was  startling,  and  no  human  being  appear- 
ed, except  here  and  there,  an  ancient  figure  whose  white 


A    JOURNEY.  153 

locks,  and  worn  visage  harmonized  perfectly  with  the 
antique  and  deserted  aspect  of  every  thing  around. 
Yet  nature  smiles  benignantly  upon  this  secluded  spot. 
Several  rich  little  gardens  and  many  clusters  of  orange 
trees,  which  here  bloom  all  the  year,  gave  evidence  of  the 
peculiar  mildness  of  the  air.  Completely  sheltered  by 
the  hills,  admirably  exposed  to  the  sun,  and  visited  by  the 
breeze  from  the  Mediterranean,  of  which  it  commands  a 
beautiful  view,  one  can  scarcely  imagine  a  more  genial 
retirement  or  a  scene  better  adapted  for  romance,  espe- 
cially as  the  inn-keeper's  daughters  have  long  been  just- 
ly celebrated  for  their  beauty.  The  possession  of  Massa 
was  often  warmly  contested  by  the  Pisans,  Lucchese, 
Florentines,  Genoese,  and  innumerable  princes  and 
bishops.  Its  castle  has  been  repeatedly  besieged.  At 
the  present  day,  quietude  and  age  brood  with  something  of 
sanctity  over  the  picturesque  town  ;  and  it  reposes  in  the 
midst  of  beauty  so  serene,  that,  on  a  fine  summer  day, 
the  heart  of  the  returning  traveller  is  beguiled  by  an  un- 
wonted spell,  to  linger  and  muse  there  over  his  past  en- 
joyments or  future  prospects,  in  view  of  that  element 
which  is  soon  to  bear  him,  perhaps  forever,  from  the 
time-hallowed  and  tranquil  precincts  of  the  old  world. 

Carrara,  which  place  we  reached  early  in  the  after- 
noon, is  also  begirt  and  overshadowed  by  the  Appenine. 
Some  of  the  peaks  seemed  as  bleak  and  snow-clad  as 
many  of  the  Swiss  mountains.  In  the  hea\y  sides  are 
embedded  the  apparently  inexhaustible  quarries  of  cele- 
brated marble,  generally  lying  in  alternate  masses  of  black 
and  white.     It  is  astonishing  to  observe  how  little  the  in- 


154  A    JOURNEY. 

ventions  of  modern  science  have  as  yet  been  applied  to 
the  working  of  these  quarries.  Serious  accidents  are  of 
frequent  occurrence  from  the  fall  of  rocks,  and  the  road 
down  which  they  are  transported  is  choked  up  and  rugged 
in  the  extreme.  The  loss  of  time  and  damage  to  the 
material  in  consequence,  may  be  easily  imagined.  The 
people  of  Carrara  live  by  their  labors,  variously  directed, 
in  quarrying,  sawing  and  removing  the  marble,  and  there 
are  rnany  studios  in  the  town  where  the  rough  work  of 
the  sculptor  is  performed,  and  copies  of  celebrated  statues 
executed  tor  sale.  As  I  descended  from  the  quarries,  and 
looked  around  upon  the  scattered  fragments  of  marble, 
there  was  something  most  interesting  and  impressive  in 
the  thought  that  from  this  spot  have  proceeded  the  mate- 
rial of  those  countless  creations  of  the  chisel  now  scat- 
tered over  the  globe.  How  triumphant  is  the  activity  of 
the  human  mind  !  how  productive  the  energies  of  art ! 
From  the  rocky  sides  of  these  rugged  hills,  what  shapes 
of  beauty  and  grace  have  arisen  ! — the  forms  of  heroes 
and  sages  centuries  since  blended  with  the  dust,  the  faces 
of  the  loved  whose  mortal  lineaments  will  be  seen  no 
more,  and  creatures  of  imaginative  birth  radiant  with 
more  than  human  loveliness.  Donatello,  Michael  Angelo, 
Canova,  Thorwaldsen,  Bartolini,  and  innumerable  other 
gifted  names  rush  upon  the  heart  and  associate  the  moun- 
tains of  Carrara  with  noble  and  lovely  forms.  We  gaze 
with  reverenjce  upon  a  spot  which  fancy  peoples  with  an 
unborn  generation  of  the  children  of  genius.  A  halo  of 
glory  environs  the  hill-sides  whence  have  gone  forth  so 
many  enduring  symbols  of  the  beautiful  and  the  grand. 


I 


A    JOURNEY.  155 

On  reaching  Sarzana,  at  night,  it  was  rather  difficult  to 
realize  upon  refering  to  the  signatures  on  my  passpc-t, 
that  during  the  day's  ride  of  less  than  forty  miles,  I  had 
passed  through  the  territories  of  five  Dukes — a  striking 
evidence  of  the  divided  state  of  Italy.  At  dawn,  the  fol- 
lowing day,  we  crossed  the  Maga  in  a  broad,  flat  /erry- 
boat,  and  as  the  grey  light  fell  upon  a  time-tinted  village 
on  an  adjacent  hill,  the  scene  would  have  furnished  a 
pretty  subject  for  a  landscape,  including  the  dingy  stream 
and  motley  cargo  of  quaintly-attired  travellers,  weather- 
worn  peasants  and  white  cattle.  On  landing,  a  carriage 
passed  us  under  the  escort  of  four  gen  d^armes  on  horse- 
back,  conducting  an  unfortunate  party  to  the  frontiers, 
who  had  been  discovered  travelling  without  a  passport.  The 
scenery  grew  more  rich  and  variegated  until  in  descend- 
ing a  hill,  we  came  at  once  in  view  of  the  beautiful  gulf 
of  Spezia.  Upon  its  finely-cultivated  borders,  are  several 
low,  massive  and  ancient  forts.  Not  far  from  the  shoic 
a  spring  of  fresh  water  gushes  up  through  the  sea.  In 
the  midst  of  the  calm,  blue  bay,  several  fishing  vessels  lay 
at  anchor,'  distinctly  reflected  on  the  water.  Along  the 
beach  were  sauntering  dark-visaged  men  with  long  red 
caps,  and  many  sunburnt  and  savage-looking  women, 
with  curious  little  straw  hats,  placed  coquettishly  upon  the 
side  of  their  heads.  Everywhere  is  the  sea  sublime,  its 
breezes  invigorating,  its  music  plaintive  ;  but  when  it  flows 
thus  clear  and  broad  to  the  shores  of  a  southern  land,  there 
is  an  unspeakable  charm  in  its  presence.  The  waves 
seem  to  roll  with  conscious  joy  to  the  warm  strand,  and 
throw  up  a  shower  of  sparkling  tears  as  they  retreat,  and 


156  A    JOURNEY. 

the  cool,  briuy  air  steals  over  the  fertile  and  sultry  plains 
like  Yalor  bracing  Love. 

Here  some  of  the  happiest  months  of  Shelley's  life  were 
spent.  He  loved  to  go  forth  in  his  boat  alone  upon  this 
bay  and  commune  with  himself  in  the  moonlight.  Here 
he  enjoyed  during  the  last  year  of  his  existence,  the  so- 
ciety of  a  few  cherished  associates,  and  here  his  wife  and 
friends  vainly  awaited,  in  agonizing  suspense,  his  return 
from  that  fatal  expedition  to  Pisa  whither  he  had  gone  to 
welcome  Hunt  to  Italy. 

It  was  between  the  A  mo  and  Serchio  that  Shelley's 
boat  went  down,  and  on  the  shore  near  Via  Reggio,  that 
his  body  was  burned  under  the  auspices  of  Lord  Byron. 

'  A  restless  impulse  urged  him  to  embark 
And  meet  lone  Death  on  the  drear  ocean-waste  ; 
For  well  he  knew  that  mighty  shadow  love 
The  shining  caverns  of  the  populous  deep.'* 

How  appropriate  to  the  beach  of  Spezia  are  his  touch- 
ing  lines,  written  near  Naples  : — 

'I  see  the  deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  sea-weed  strown  : 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers  thrown  : 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone, 

The  hghtning  of  the  noontide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 

Arises  from  its  measured  motion, 
How  sweet  did  any  heart  now  share  in  ray  emotion.' 

*  Alastor. 


GENOA. 


"  The  ocean-wave  th>  wealth  reflected." 

Rogers- 

*  The  beauty  of  an  Italian  sunset  has  not  beenexagger- 
ated  either  by  the  pencil  of  Claude,  or  the  pen  of  the  po- 
ets,' I  musingly  affirmed,  while  loitering  down  a  long  curv- 
ing declivity,  in  (he  twilight  of  a  warm  summer  evening. 
The  farthest  range  of  hills  my  eager  vision  could  descry, 
were  bathed  in  a  rich  purple,  occasionally  verging  to  a  dark 
blue  tint,  the  adjacent  sea  glowed  with  saffron  hues,  while 
the  horizon  wore  the  aspect  of  molten  gold,  fading  to- 
wards the  zenith,  to  a  pale  amber.  The  pensive  whistle  of 
the  vetturino  came  softened  by  the  distance  to  my  ear.  Be- 
fore me  was  the  far-stretching  road,  and  around  the  still 
and  lonely  hills.  A  few  hours  previous,  we  had  left  the 
little  town  of  Borghetti,  and  on  the  ensuing  day,  anticipa- 
ted  repose  within  the  precincts  of  that  city,  which  enriched 
with  the  spoils  of  a  splendid  commerce  and  brilliant  mari- 
time adventure,  so  long  boasted  the  title  of  superb ;  that 
city  whose  neighborhood  gave  biith  to  Columbus,  and 
who  prides  herself,  in  these  more  degenerate  times,  in 
having  produced  the  prince  of  fiddlers.  The  wide  sweep- 
ing chain  of  the  Appeniues  we  had  traversed,  is  covered 
14 


158  GENOA. 

with  rough  bushes,  the  most  meagre  vegetation,  and  so 
rock-ribbed  as  to  have  rendered  the  construction  of  the 
road  an  enterprise  of  extreme  difficulty.  For  a  long  dis- 
tance there  is  no  sign  of  life,  but  the  venerable  looking 
goats  clambering  about  in  search  of  subsistence,  and  the 
children  that  tend  them,  whose  air  and  faces  are  painfully 
significant  of  premature  responsibility.  Sometimes  we 
came  in  sight  of  the  sea,  calm  as  crystal,  and  dotted  with 
a  few  distant  sails.  It  was  easy  to  realize  the  bleak 
and  dangerous  ride  to  which  the  traveller  is  here  exposed 
in  winter.  But  the  succeeding  morning  displayed  a  new 
and  richer  vegetation.  Aloes  and  fig-trees,  remind  one 
of  Sicily,  a  [resemblance  which  the  vicinity  of  the  Medi- 
terranean enhances.  The  first  part  of  th*e  day's  ride,  lies 
along  the  margin  of  the  water,  and  afterwards  chiefly  over 
verdant  hills,  which  often  slope  down  to  the  shore.  The 
gulf  of  Sesto,  as  you  withdraw  from  it,  appears  singularly 
graceful.  Its  beach  has  a  most  symmetrical  curve.  So 
placid  was  the  water,  that  the  town  of  St.  Margueritto,  seen 
from  above,  was  perfectly  reflected  as  in  a  mirror,  and  the 
picture  resembled  a  miniature  Venice.  The  scenery 
throughout  the  ride,  is  remarkably  variegated ;  and  the 
garniture  of  the  country  sufficiently  blended  between  ve- 
getable gardens,  olive  and  fig  orchards,  and  wild  trees  to 
render  it  pleasingly  various.  Several  grottoes  are  pass- 
ed which  are  plastered  over  interiorly,  in  order  to  prevent 
the  springs  from  dripping  ;  but  the  lover  of  the  pictur- 
esque, cannot  but  wish  they  had  been  left  rough-hewn 
like  those  of  the  Simplon.  From  the  last  of  these,  Ge- 
noa is  seen  far  below  on  the   borders  of  the  sea.     The 


GENOA.  159 

view  is  not  comparable  with  that  on  approaching  it  by  wa- 
ter. It  gives  no  idea  of  majesty.  Clusters  of  lemon  and 
orani^e  line  the  remainder  of  the  way,  as  well  as  innu- 
merable villas  admirably  exposed  to  the  sea-breeze,  but  as 
usual,  lacking  the  vicinity  of  trees — a  charm  which  rural 
taste  can  scarcely  consent  to  yield,  even  though  the  defi- 
ciency is  supplied  by  inviting  verandahs. 

There  are  decided  maritime  features,  even  upon  first 
entering  Genoa.  The  mixed  throng,  the  sun-burnt  faces, 
the  garb  and  even  the  manners  of  the  lower  order,  imme- 
diately bespeak  a  sea-port.  From  the  extreme  narrowness 
of  the  streets,  much  of  the  actual  beauty  and  richness  of 
th^city  is  hid  from  the  gaze.  Even  the  numerous  pala- 
ces do  not  at  first  strike  the  stranger,  situated  as  they  fre- 
quently are,  in  thoroughfares  so  confined  as  to  aff'jrd  no 
complete  view  of  their  facades.  Many  a  pietty  garden 
and  cool  arbor  is  placed  upon  a  roof  so  lofty,  or  a  terrace 
so  secluded,  as  to  be  wholly  concealed  from  observation, 
yet  affording  retired  and  delightful  retreats,  overlooking 
the  bay,  and  do  less  attractive  to  the  meditative  recluse 
or  the  secret  lovers,  from  being  far  above  the  crowd  and 
out  of  sight  of  the  curious, — the  country  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  city,  a  garden  independent  of  territory  !  Many 
of  the  peculiarities  of  Genoa,  are  fist  losing  themselves 
in  modern  improvements.  The  streets  are  widening  ev- 
ery year,  and  carriages,  once  quite  unknown,  are  coming 
daily  in  vogue.  There  is  something  here  congenial  with 
the  alleged  sinister  tastes  of  the  Italians.  The  finest  caf- 
p  is  in  an  obscure  street.  One  is  continually  stumb- 
ling upon  luxurious  arrangements,  and  agreeable  nooks, 


160 


GENOA. 


where  he  least  expects  them  ;  and    the   narrow  lanes,  the 
hue  of  the  marble,  and  the  marine  odors  bring  constantly 
to  mind  the  rival  republic  of  the  Adriatic.    The  churches 
are  far  more  rich  in  frescos   ond  marble,  than  any  other 
work  of  art.     In  that  of  the   Scuola    Pia,  however,  there 
are  some  exquisite  basso-relievos  by  a  Genoese.     In  one 
of  them  the  face  of  Mary  is  very  sweet  and  graceful.     The 
palaces  are  the  chief  attraction  of  Genoa.     In  one  we  ad- 
mire the  profusion  of  gold  and    mirrors,  with  which  the 
lofty  saloons  are  decorated ;   in  another   the    magnificent 
stair-case ;  here  the  splendid  tints  of  the  marble  floor,  and 
there  the    fine    old    family  portraits.     These   noble   and 
princely  dwellings,  eloquently  speak  to  the  stranger  of  Wie 
wealth,  luxury  and  taste,  which  once  prevailed  here;  nor 
judging  by  one  example,  should  I  imagine  that  their   em- 
pire had  ceased.     Having  occasion  to  seek  an  old  baron 
well  known  for  his  liberal  taste,  after   roaming  over  his 
immense  garden,  till  weary  of  peeping    into    arbors  and 
temples,  I  found  him  in  a* cool  grotto  at  breakfast  with  a 
party  of  artists.     His  beautiful  domain   was  once  an  an- 
cient fortress.     All  the  earth  was  transported  thither,  and 
he  has  spared  no  pains  to  make  it  a  paradise.      On  every 
pretty  knoll  he  has  placed    a  bovver  or  statue.     Busts  of 
departed  sages  are   reared    beside    murmuring  fountains. 
One  liitle  building  is  appropriated  to  his  library ;  another 
to  scientific  apparatus.     One  terrace  rises  above  another, 
bedecked  with  rose  bushes  and    fragrant  shrubs.      From 
this  point  you  behold  a  beautiful  vista,  and  from  that  look 
down  upon  the  public  walk,  around  upon  the  city,  or  far 
awav  on  the  wide  blue  sea.     I  would  not  recommend  an 


GENOA.  161 

asthmatic  person  to  live  in  Genoa.  There  is  too  much 
climbing  necessary  in  perambulating  the  streets.  The 
women  are  often  pretty  and  have  in  general  a  Spanish  look. 
Formerly  they  universally  wore  the  long  and  graceful  white 
muslin  veil  flowing  backward  as  the  Milanese  did  the 
blvick.  Many  have  now  adopted  the  more  artificial  style 
of  French  costume.  The  faccliini  are  uncommonly  im- 
pertinent, and  the  people  for  the  most  part,  very  saving 
and  quiet,  rather  proud  and  generally  industrious.  Ge- 
noa now  exports  little  but  silk  or  velvet,  although  she 
continues  to  furnish  the  best  mariners  in  the  Mediterrane- 
an. The  Sardinian  flag  is  often  seen  in  the  Brazils,  and 
West  Indies,  though  rarely  in  the  East. 

Among  the  by-way  oddities  of  the  place  are  the  numer- 
ous parrots  and  little  naval  ofl[icers  arrayed  in  the  cos- 
tume of  adults,  although  sometimes  only  nine  years  old. 
In  the  street  of  the  jewellers,  there  's  a  very  pretty  Mado- 
na  about  two  centuries  old,  the  painter  of  which  was  kill- 
ed by  his  master  from  jealousy.  The  jewellers  have 
been  offered  large  sums  for  this  picture,  but,  considering 
it  as  their  guardian  saint,  they  will  not  part  with  it 
on  any  terms.  In  one  of  the  thoroughfares  a  tablet 
perpetuates  the  infamy  of  two  traitors  ;  and  at  an- 
other  angle,  as  if  to  atone  for  the  shameful  record,  an 
inscription  upon  an  ancient  palace,  sets  forth  that  it 
was  the  gift  of  Genoa  to  the  brave  Admiral  Doria, 
in  acknowledgement  of  his  courage  and  patriotism. 
Opposite  to  this  interesting  monument  is  the  church 
where  the  bones  of  the  gallant  hero  are  said  to  repose. 


14* 


BOLOGNA. 


What   solemn  spirit  doth  inhabit  here, 
What  sacred  oracle  hath  here  a  home  ? 

Gait. 

Italy  is  a  land  of  contrasts.  Its  various  cities  are  not 
only  characterized  by  diversity  in  the  schools  of  painting 
and  architecture  ;  but  the  natural  scenery,  the  clitnate  and 
the  dialect  and  manners  of  the  people  are,  alone,  sufficient 
strongly  to  identify  the  different  towns.  It  is  not  a 
little  surprising  in  the  view  of  one  habituated  to  the  facili- 
ties of  communication  existing  in  England  and  the  United 
States,  to  witness  such  striking  contrasts  between  places 
separated  by  a  space  of  only  one  or  two  hundred  miles  ; 
and  it  is  to  be  explained  only  by  recurring  to  the  original 
distinctions  of  the  different  republics,  and  to  the  absence 
of  those  motives  for  frequent  intercourse  whic  h  operate  so 
powerfully  to  equalise  and  assimilate  commercial  districts. 
This  contrariety  is  nowhere  more  observable  than  between 
Florence  and  Bologna.  We  leave  a  city  seated  in  the 
midst  of   hills,  over  whose  broad  slopes,  dotted    with 


BOLOGNA.  163 

gnarled,  grey  olive  trees,  are  scatt  n-ed  innumerable  villas  ; 
where  our  eyes  have  grown  familiar  with  the  airy  architec- 
ture of  the  bridsjes,  the  massive  dome  of  the  cathedral, 
and  the  graceful  lightness  of  the  campanile  ;  where  fio  ver. 
girls,  loitering  pedestrians,  and  gay  equipages  give  life 
and  variety  to  the  scene,  in  spite  of  the  gloomy  style  of 
the  palaces,  and  the  unfinished  facades  of  the  churches. 
A  few  hours  are  passed  in  winding  amid  the  Appenines, 
and  we  walk  the  streets  of  a  capital,  where  long  lines  of 
porticos  shade  the  thoroughfares,  were  a  half-barbarous 
accent  destroys  the  sweetness  of  the  language,  and  a  cer- 
tain moroseness  marks  the  manners  of  the  people.  There 
is  certainly  a  kind  of  natural  language  in  cities  as  well  as 
in  individuals,  an  inexplicable  influence,  which  produces 
a  spontaneous  impression  upon  our  minds.  Otherwise, 
why  is  it  that  so  many  continental  sojourneis  feel  perfect- 
ly at  home  in  the  Tuscan  metropolis,  and  quite  out  of 
their  element  in  many  other  cities  of  Italy,  boasting  more 
interesting  society,  and  a  more  agreeable  round  of  amuse- 
ments ?  In  the  passage  of  the  Appenines,  a  lover  of 
mountain  scenery  will  not  be  without  the  means  of  enjoy- 
ment. The  picturesque  defiles  and  wild  ranges,  the 
barren  peaks  and  fertile  slopes,  the  pebly  dells  and  broad 
undulations,  though  on  a  comparatively  small  scale  as  re- 
gards grandeur,  are  yet  sufficiently  pleasing  to  yield  that 
sweet  charm  to  the  imagination  which  such  scenery  is  fit- 
ted to  inspire.  The  only  remarkable  object  of  natural 
curiosity  encountered  in  the  route  is  a  species  of  volcano. 
It  was  a  beautiful  evening  when  we  left  the  miserable  village 
where  we  were  to  lodge,  and  sought  this  singular  spot. 


164  BOLOGNA. 

We  were  in  the  very  midst  of  the  Appenines.  The  air 
was  cool  and  bracing,  and  over  the  western  horizon,  lin- 
gered  the  rich,  rosy  glow  that  succeeds  a  fine  sunset,  as  if 
the  portals  of  heaven  were  half-opened  to  the  longing 
gaze.  Along  the  rocky  path  above  us,  several  peasant 
girls  were  carrying  vases  of  water  on  their  heads  from  a 
favorite  spring,  singing  as  they  went,  and  their  clear 
voices  came  with  a  kind  of  wild  melody  to  our  ears.  The 
whole  scene  was  calculated  to  convey  that  soothing  idea 
of  the  repose  of  pastoral  life,  which,  at  intervals,  fascinates 
even  those  least  inclined  to  solitude.  We  found  the  ob' 
ject  of  our  search  in  the  midst  of  a  stony  soil.  Flames, 
evidently  of  ignited  gas,  issued  from  the  ground  in  a  cir- 
cle of  about  ten  feet  in  diameter.  About  the  centre,  the 
largest  flame  was  red,  and  burned  steadily  ;  but  the  others 
were  of  a  pale  violet  color  and  quivered  incessantly,  seem- 
ing to  creep  along  the  ground  as  the  night  breeze  swept 
over  them.  In  truth  the  appearance  of  the  fire  was  pre- 
cisely that  which  we  might  imagine  of  the  magic  circle 
of  some  ancient  sorcerer  ;  and  the  dreary  loneliness  of  the 
spot  seemed  finely  adapted  to  the  idea.  The  flames  burn 
more  brightly  after  a  rain,  but  no  one  in  the  neighborhood, 
recollects  any  particular  change  in  the  volcano.  It  has 
never  been  known  to  disgorge  sulphurous  matter,  or  ex- 
hibit any  diflTerent  phenomena  than  at  present ;  but  ever 
burns  with  a  constant  and  apparently  inextinguishable 
fire. 

Porticos  line  all  the  principal  streets  of  Bologna ;  and 
however  convenient  their  shelter  may  prove  to  a  pedes- 
trian on  a  rainy  day,  it  requires  no  little  time  for  the 


BOLOGNA.  165 

Stranger  to  become  recouciled  to  the  sombre  impression 
they  prodace.  The  most  extensive  line  of  these  arches 
is  that  which  leads  from  the  city  to  the  Church  of  St. 
Luke,  a  distance  of  three  miles.  The  promenade  on  a 
fine  day,  displays  at  every  turn,  beautiful  views  of  the  sur. 
rounding  plains;  and  the  elevated  position  of  the  temple 
of  the  patron  saint  of  the  Bo'.ognese,  approached  by  such 
a  noble  range  of  porticos,  strikes  the  traveller  as  a  well  coii' 
ceived  idea.  The  passion  for  this  style  of  building  has 
extended  to  many  of  the  adjacent  towns,  and  the  three 
first  tiers  of  t  le  spacious  threatre  of  Bologna  present  the 
same  favorite  form.  The  gloomy  aspect  of  this  species 
of  street  architecture,  is  enhanced  by  the  solitude  that 
prevails  in  mmy  parts  of  this  extensive  town  ; — and  late 
in  the  evening,  when  ihe  lamps  shed  a  dazzling  light  at 
intervals  through  the  long  and  silent  vistas  of  the  less  fre- 
quented ways,  a  scenic  effect  is  produced  favorable  to  ro- 
mantic impressions.  I  remember  being  struck,  upon  en- 
tering the  city  after  night-fall  by  one  of  its  most  solitary 
gates,  with  the  picture  formed  by  a  decrepid  and  withered 
Old  woman,  seated  at  the  loot  of  one  of  the  pillars  of  a 
dark  portico,  roasting  chesnuts.  The  lurid  glare  of  her 
charcoal  fire  shot  up,  in  fitiul  flashes  to  the  top  of  the 
arch,  bringing  her  haggard  features  i  ito  strong  relief, 
while  all  around  was  involved  in  deep  shade. 

Perhap 5  the  most  impressive  of  the  traveller's  experi- 
ence in  this  unprepossessing  city,  is  the  view  from  the 
summit  of  the  old  leaning  tower  in  the  piazza,  and  two 
or  three  of  the  faces  depicte.l  on  the  inspired  canvass  of 
the  old  masters  in  the   academy.     The  eye  of  RaphaePs 


166  BOLOGNA. 

St.  Cecilia,  the  expression  of  some  of  the  figures  in  the 
celebrated  "Massacre  of  the  Innocents,"  and  especially  the 
upturned  and  beaming  look  of  Guido's  Magdalen  crouch- 
ed at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  haunt  the  imagination  long 
after  the  eye  has  ceased  to  behold  them.  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  always  urged  his  scholars  to  make  a  loBg  so- 
journ at  Bologna.  The  most  annoying  feature  in  the 
present  aspect  of  this  city,  is  the  presence  of  the  Austrian 
troops,  sputtering  their  gutturals  in  the  caff^s,  parading 
beneath  the  arcades,  and  drawn  up  in  files  in  the  saloon 
of  the  theatre.  Everywhere  one  encounters  the  insig. 
nia  of  military  despotism,  and,  perhaps,  to  a  liberal  mind 
the  most  painful  associations  are  derived  from  the  ap- 
pearance of  some  of  the  fine  looking  Swiss  officers — sons 
of  the  mountains  and  recipients  of  nobler  political  influ- 
ences than  their  fellows,  and  yet  content  to  be  the  hire- 
ling oppressors  of  a  foreign  soil. 

One  of  the  richest  palaces  in  Bologna,  belongs  to  Bac- 
ciochi,  who  espoused  the  sister  of  Napoleon,  and  there 
is  scarcely  one  of  its  splendid  apartments  unadorned  with 
some  memorial  of  his  person  or  life.  Here  is  a  portrait 
exhibiting  the  free  and  fresh  expression  of  irresponsible 
youth  ;  there  the  same  brow  appears  shaded  by  a  military 
cap  or  glittering  coronet ;  here  that  extraordinary  counte- 
nance is  exquisitely  delineated  upon  a  small  surface  of 
ivory,  and  there  elaborately  carved  in  the  centreof  a  pie^ra 
dura  table.  In  the  centre  of  a  richly-curtained  cabinet 
is  his  bust  by  Canova ;  over  the  fire-place  of  a  silken- 
hung  bed  room,  is  his  head  encircled  by  rays;  and  on 
the  damask  walls  of  the  magnificent   saloon,    hangs  his 


BOLOGNA.  167 

full  length  portrait,  splendidly  arrayed  in  coronation  robes. 
In  another  apartment,  we  behold  his  statue  in  marble, 
surrounded  by  those  of  his  family  ;  and  on  a  slab,  in  an 
adjoining  room,  we  gaze  on  the  same  remarkable  features 
fixed  in  the  still  rigidity  of  death,  in  the  form  of  a  bronze 
cast  taken  after  his  decease.  It  is  enough  to  temper  the 
eagerness  of  the  veriest  enthusiast  in  pursuit  of  glory,  to 
wander  through  this  quiet,  lofty  and  elegantly  decorated  pa- 
lace, and  as  his  eye  rests  upon  these  memorials,  call  to  mind 
successively  the  most  wonderful  epochs  of  Napoleon's  life. 
He  seems  almost  to  move  before  us,  as  the  drama  of  his 
memorable  career  is  acted  rapidly  out  in  the  imagination. 
We  remember  his  early  achievements,  his  startling  victo- 
ries, his  suddenly  acquired  empire,  the  grandeur  of  his 
projects,  the  immense  sacrifice  attending  their  fulfilment, 
and,  at  length,  the  waning  of  his  proud  star — his  fall,  exile, 
and  death.  How  brief  a  period  has  sufficed  to  transfer 
the  deeds  of  Europe's  modern  conqueror  to  the  calm 
sphere  of  history,  and  enthrone  his  terrible  name  amid 
the  undreaded  though  solemn  past ! 

Enterprise  and  geuuis  inmost  of  the  departments  of 
human  effort  meet  with  so  little  pecuniary  encouragement 
in  Italy,  that  they  almost  invariably  excite  sympathy  for 
thi?  ill-rewarded  toil  of  the  votary.  An  exception  to  this 
rule  I  witnessed  in  Bologna,  in  the  person  of  Rossini, 
the  composer,  whose  operas  continue  toyielJ  him  a  hand- 
some income.  But  a  case  more  in  accordance  with  the 
prevailing  spirit,  is  that  of  a  Bolognese  ohysician,  who, 
for  several  years,  was  attached  to  the  military  service  in 
Greece  and  Egypt.     While  in  Nubia,  at  great  expense. 


168  BOLOGNA. 

and  with  incredible  fatigue  and  danger,  he  succeeded  in 
excavating  a  pyramid,  and  bringing  away  the  contents  of 
a  sarcophagus  which  he  discovered  within.  According  to 
the  opinion  of  the  most  esteemed  archeologists  whom  he 
has  consulted,  this  pyramid  was  erected  seven  hundred 
years  before  the  Christian  era,  by  King  Tahraka.  The 
collection  consists  chiefly  of  ornaments  of  the  finest  gold 
— rings,  bracelets,  and  neck-laces,  upon  which  are  \vrouii,ht 
the  various  devices  and  emblems  of  Egyptian  lore.  Many 
of  these  are  exceedingly  curious,  and  different  from  those 
previously  known.  But  the  most  singular  circumstance 
attending  this  excavation  is,  that  among  the  articles 
disinterred  is  a  cameo,  representing  a  head  of  Minerva, 
executed  in  a  style  altogether  beyond  the  epoch  in  the 
history  of  art,  from  which  the  other  objects  evidently  date. 
In  fact,  there  are  obvious  indications  that  the  stone  is  of 
Grecian  workmanship.  The  only  satisfactory  solution 
which  has  been  given  to  this  problem,  is  that  the  pyramid 
although  commenced  during  the  reign  of  Tahraka,  was 
not  completed  until  after  an  interval  of  three  hundred 
years — a  supposition  which  is  confirmed  by  the  difference 
observable  in  the  angle  and  quality  of  the  stones.  This 
valuable  collection  still  remains  upon  the  hands  of  the 
enterprising  excavator,  although  it  so  richly  merits  a  place 
in  some  public  museum,  for  which  object  it  would  doubtless 
be  purchased — as  the  poor  physician  regretfully  declared 
— if  it  had  been  his  lot  to  be  a  native  of  England  or 
France,  instead  of  impoverished  Italy, 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  of  Catholic  fertivals — 
called  the  Day  of  the  Dead — occurred  on  the  loveliest  day 


BOLOGNA.  169 

of  my  brief  sojourn  in  Bologna.  Nature  breathed  any 
language  rather  than  that  of  mortality  and  decay.  The 
road  leading  to  the  celebrated  Campo  Santo  was  thronged 
with  people  walking  beneath  the  glad  sky,  in  holiday 
attire  ;  and  there  would  have  been  one  universal  semblance 
of  gaiety,  but  for  the  moaning  tones  and  wretched  appear- 
ance of  the  beggars  that  lined  the  way.  The  numerous 
arcades  of  the  extensive  burying  place  resounded  with  the 
hum;  bustle,  and  exclamations  of  a  careless  crowd,  who 
moved  about  like  the  multitude  at  a  fair.  But  for  the 
countless  busts  of  departed  worthies,  the  numberless  in- 
scriptions, and  the  echoes  of  the  mass  floating  from  one 
of  the  open  chapels,  it  would  have  been  impossible  to 
believe,  that  this  concourse  had  assembled  ostensibly  to 
remember  and  honor  the  dead.  To  the  view  of  a  stranger 
nothing  could  be  more  incongruous  or  strange  than  the 
scene.  The  cypresses  and  cenotaphs  assured  him  he  was 
in  a  burial  place  ;  while  every  moment  he  was  jostled  by 
a  hurrying  group,  and  his  ears  saluted  with  peals  of  dis, 
cordant  laughter,  the  leering  whisper  of  the  courtezan,  and 
the  stern  reproof  of  the  soldier.  And  yet  in  his  answer 
to  the  inquiries  which  curiosity  promotes,  he  is  told  that 
this  day  is  conse  crated  to  the  departed,  that  this  throng 
have  assembled  to  think  of,  and  pray  for  them,  and  that 
these  tapers  are  placed  by  surviving  friends  around  the 
tombs  of  the  loved  and  lost.  There  was  something  jar- 
ring to  every  nerve,  something  that  mocked  every  hallowed 
association  in  this  rude  contrast  between  the  solemn 
emblems  of  death,  and  the  eager  recklessness  of  life.  I 
suggested  the  idea  of  inexorable  and  unmitigable  destiny, 

16 


170  BOLOGNA. 

rather  than  consoling  faith.  It  was  redolent  of  bitterness 
and  despair.  It  was  as  if  men  would  confront  the  dark 
doom  of  mortality  with  hollow  laughter  and  raillery.  So, 
at  least,  the  scene  impressed  one  spectator,  to  whom  it  was 
new ;  yet  habit,  or  their  peculiar  creed,  had  apparently 
associated  it  in  the  minds  of  the  multitude  with  no  such 
shocking  suggestions.  It  was  affecting  to  notice,  here  and 
there,  a  monument  unilluminated — perhaps  that  of  a 
stranger,  who  died  nnhonored  and  unsoothed,  or  the  an- 
cient mausoleum  of  such  who  could  claim  kindred  with 
the  place  and  the  people,  but  whose  memories  inexorable 
time  had  consigned  to  the  dark  abyss  of  forgetfulness. 


LUCCA. 


"  In  the  deep  umbrage  of  the  olive's  shade." 

ChiUe  Harold. 

The  Lucchese  look  upon  the  mountains.  Does  not 
this,  in  some  measure,  account  for  their  love  of  liberty  ? 
It  may  seem  rather  more  fanciful  than  philosophic,  but 
one  can  scarcely  perambulate,  on  a  fine  day,  the  delight- 
ful promenade,  which  surrounds  the  walls,  and  gaze  on 
the  adjacent  hills,  without  realizing,  as  it  were,  in  the 
tenor  of  his  musings,  something  of  the  elevated  and  in- 
spiring sentiment,  so  beautifully  typified  by  their  green 
and  graceful  loftiness.  '  High  mountains  are  a  feeling  ;' 
and  were  we  to  analyse  the  emotions  they  excite,  surely 
the  sense^of  freedom  would  be  prominent  among  them. 
Not  less  in  the  spirit  of  wisdom  than  of  poetry,  should  we 
found  a  city  among  the  hills.  Let  the  souls  of  men 
grow  familiar  with  their  sky-pointing  summits,  their  blue 
waving  lines,  the  dark  hugeness  of  their  forms  at  night- 
fall, and  the  rosy  vestment  thrown  around  them  by  the 
morning.     It  was   not  an   accidental  combination  that 


172  Lucci.. 

made  the  Alps  Tell's  birth-place,  or  planted  the  home  of 
Hofer  in  the  midst  of  the  Tyrol.  Originally  a  Roman  colo- 
ny, Lucca,  in  the  middle  ages,  was  re[)eatedly  bartered  away 
by  successive  masters,  in  consequence  of  the  liberal  princi- 
ples of  her  inhabitants,  until  she  succeeded  while  in  thepos- 
session  of  Florence,  in  purchasing  her  freedom  of  Charles 
IV,  for  two  hundred  thousand  guilders.  One  of  herfirst  self- 
created  rulers  was  Castruccio,  a  warrior  pre-eminent  for 
consummate  bravery;  and,  alihough  involved  in  numer- 
ous wars,  she  maintained  her  independence  till  the  time 
of  Napoleon.  It  was  a  happy  circumstance  for  the  Luc- 
chese,  that  the  Emperor's  sister  who  virtually  governed 
them,  had  learned  from  her  brother  Lucien  while  in  Paris, 
to  love  and  respect  the  cause  of  Poetry  and  the  Arts. 
Elise  delighted  in  exhibiting  this  new-born  taste,  by  a 
generous  patronage  of  genius;  and  the  traveller  meets 
with  many  affecting  proofs  of  the  attachment  in  which 
her  memory  is  still  held  by  the  people. 

Well  do  the  inhabitants  of  this  little  duchy,  deserve  the 
appellative  so  long,  by  general  consent,  bestowed  on 
them,  of  the  industrious.  Fields  of  flax,  and  vegetable 
patches  of  the  most  promising  aspect,  indicate  to  the 
stranger  his  vicinity  to  Lucca.  A  rocky  vein  of  soil  and 
many  cliff-like  hills  affords  genial  ground  for  the  olive, 
and  a  certain  superior  quality  in  the  fr.it  or  peculiar  care 
exercised  in  the  manufacture,  renders  the  oil  here  pro- 
duced, preferable  to  that  of  any  other  district  in  Italy. 
Within  a  i^ew  years,  fortunes  have  been  made  by  the  fa- 
brication of  paper  and  silk.  The  hangings  of  the  Palace, 
indeed,  furnish  a  striking  proof  of  the   degree  of  excel- 


LUCCA.  173 

lence  attained  in  the  latter  branch.  This  edifice  is  far 
more  rich,  however,  in  works  of  art.  There  is  a  picture 
by  Annibal  Carraci,  representing  the  Woman  taken  in 
Adultery.  An  expression  of  profound  sorrow  and  benev- 
olence  illumes  the  Saviour's  countenance.  Hehas  risen 
from  the  stooping  posture  he  had  assumed  in  the  presence 
of  the  malignant  accusers,  and  seems  just  to  have  dismiss- 
ed the  woman  who,  kneeling  at  his  feet,  is  gazing  des- 
pairingly upon  his  face.  Her  eyes  are  full  of  eloquent 
sorrow.  We  can  almost  see  the  tears  ;  but  her  anguish 
is  evidently  too  deep  for  weeping,  while  something  like 
the  light  of  hope  mingles  with  and  beautifies  her  expres- 
sion, as  if  his  forgiving  accent  had  already  fallen  upon 
ner  soul.  In  the  same  apartment  hangs  another  painting 
remarkable  for  effective  coloring — Christ  before  Pilate, 
by  Gerardo  delle  Notti.  The  rays  ot  a.  candle  shine  up 
on  the  sharp  Jewish  features  of  the  judge,  and  from  amid 
the  dark  shadows  of  the  back-ground,  beam  forth,  in  calm 
majesty,  the  serene  lineaments  of  the  accused.  The  capo 
cl'opem  of  this  collection  is  a  Holy  Family  by  Raphael, 
which  some  might  be  pardoned  for  esteeming  above  the 
more  celebrated  one  of  the  Pitti  palace.  The  mother's 
face  is  certainly  more  strictly  Italian,  and  nothing  can  be 
more  sweetly  eloquent  than  her  downcast  eyes  meekly 
bent  upon  the  clinging  child.  Angelica  Kaufman,  who 
learned  painting  from  her  father,  and  so  speedily  surpass- 
ed him  in  skill,  Is  said  to  have  greatly  preferred  ideal  fe- 
male figures,  and,  as  her  point  of  excellence  was  grace, 
they  were  doubtless  best  adapted  to  her  pencil.  She 
found,  however,  in  real  life,  an  admirable  subject,  in  the 

15* 


174  LUCCA. 

person  of  Amarllla  Etrusca,  an  admired  improvisalrice^ 
whose  portrait  taken  at  the  moment  of  inspiration,  graces 
the  Ducal  gallery.  It  is  a  delightful  and  by  no  means  a 
common  occurrence,  in  the  annals  of  the  arts,  for  one 
gifted  woman  thus  to  celebrate  another.  The  most  re- 
nowned picture,  however,  at  present  existing  here,  is  the 
Assumption,  by  Fra  Bartolomeo,  in  the  Dominican  con- 
vent. A  young  artist  from  Rome,  patronised  by  the  Duke, 
was  my  cicerone  at  Lucca,  and,  after  viewing  the  palace, 
we  adjourned  to  his  studio,  to  look  over  his  designs. 
Some  of  these  indicate  no  ordinary  talent.  One  of  them 
illustrates  an  instance  of  sudden  vengeance  recorded  in 
the  history  of  Tuscany.  Cosmo  de  Medici,  as  the  story 
runs,  having  discovered  an  intrigue  between  his  wife  and 
a  page,  sent  for  a  priest  and  executioner,  and  when  all 
was  ready,  called  her  into  the  apartment,  made  known 
his  discovery,  and  giving  a  signal,  the  favorite  was  mur- 
dered before  her  eyes.  The  moment  chosen,  is  when  the 
enraged  husband,  having  displayed  an  intercepted  letter, 
is  uttering  the  fatal  word.  The  scene  was  most  vividly 
sketched  by  the  young  painter — the  deep  but  diverse  emo- 
tions of  the  several  parties,  being  most  strongly  depicted 
in  their  attitudes  and  expression. 

But  the  period  of  my  sojourn  at  Lucca,  was  not  alto- 
gether favorable  to  a  quiet  and  leisure  survey  of  her  at- 
tractions.  It  was  the  anniversary  of  a  triennial  festa  in 
a  neighboring  town,  and  the  inviting  weather,  and  cheer 
ful  faces  of  the  throng  swarming  the  gate,  were  enough  to 
lure  even  a  passing  traveller  along  the  road  to  Pescia,  the 
birth-place  of  Sismondi.     The  contadini  of  this  and  the 


LUCCA.  175 

adjacent  villages  crowded  the  streets.  The  men's  faces 
were  generally  sallow,  or  very  brown  from  exposure  to 
the  sun  ;  and  those  which  age  had  stamped  with  furrows, 
,  and  shaded  with  gray  locks,  resemble  the  impressive 
heads  so  often  introduced  in  the  pictures  of  the  old  mas- 
ters. The  female  peasants  have  the  same  sun-burnt  ap- 
pearance, being  equally  accustomed  to  work  in  the  fields. 
They  wore  enormous  gold  and  silver  ornaments,  ofteu 
preserving,  in  this  form,  all  their  superfluous  earnings. 
On  this  occasion,  too,  their  best  mantillas  were  in  requi- 
sition, of  a  snowy  whiteness,  and  frequently  embroidered 
vs^ith  no  little  taste.  This  simple,  but  most  becoming 
head  dress,  is  in  beautiful  contrast  with  their  olive  com- 
plexions and  raven  hair.  It  is  a  charming  pastime  for  a 
native  of  the  North,  to  thread  such  an  assemblage  of  the 
rustic  fair  of  the  South.  Sometimes  a  face  is  encounter- 
ed, so  bland,  innocent,  and  passively  beautiful,  but  for  the 
rich  jet  eyes,  as  to  revive  the  sweet  impressions  which 
poetry  inspires,  of  what  an  English  poet  considers  the 
most  divine  coincidence  in  existence — 'a  lovely  woman 
in  a  rural  spot.'  To  give  variety  to  the  otherwise  pastoral 
aspect  of  the  scene,  here  and  there,  some  exquisite  from 
an  adjacent  city,  loiters  along,  and  the  venders  endeavor 
to  call  attention  to  their  stalls,  by  loud  and  various  cries. 
Nuts,  cheap  toys,  and  pastry,  comprise  their  merchan- 
dise. And  what  are  the  ostensible  amusements  of  such  a 
concourse?  What  spell  preserves  amid  such  a  heteroge- 
neous mass,  so  much  order  and  mutual  courtesy  ?  Whence 
the  charm  that  gives  rise  to  such  merry  peals  of  laughter, 
that  arrays  so  many  faces  with  gladness  ?     Nature,   in- 


176  LUCCA. 

deed,  smiles  upon  them ;  but  they  seldom  know  her 
frowns.  Doubtless,  there  is  much  delight  in  (he  simple 
dole e  far  niente,  much  spontaneous  joy  in  the  social  ex. 
citement  of  the  scene,  to  which  the  Italians  of  every 
class  are  peculiarly  susceptible.  A  festa  in  Italy,  how- 
ever, must  ever  be  more  or  less  of  a  mystery  to  one  wed- 
ded to  a  cold  philosophy.  And  yet  I  pity  the  man  who 
can  roam  through  such  a  village,  at  such  a  season,  and 
not  breathe  more  freely,  and  catch  a  ray  of  pleasure  from 
the  light-hearted  triflers  around  him.  He  may  be  wise  ; 
he  must  be  heartless. 

The  festa  of  Pescia  was  ushered  in,  as  usual,  by  a  re- 
ligious ceremonial.  The  principal  church  was  arrayed 
in  crimson  and  gold,  and  illuminated  with  hundreds  of 
tapers.  Mass  was  performed,  and,  for  several  hours,  a 
choir  and  an  orchestra  made  the  vaulted  roof  resound  with 
sacred  melody.  No  peasant  seemed  satisfied  till  his  brow 
was  moistened  with  the  holy  water,  and  his  knees  had 
pressed  the  steps  of  the  altar.  The  responses  once  utter- 
ed, and  the  benediction  received,  they  hastened  again  in- 
to the  open  air,  to  chat  with  their  fellows  from  the  ad. 
joining  district,  or  treat  some  favorite  maiden  to  an  ice. 
In  the  afternoon,  they  flocked  into  the  main  street,  to  see 
a  race.  Three  or  four  horses,  without  riders,  decked  out 
in  gilt  paper,  and  with  briars  shaking  at  their  sides,  are 
started  from  a  certain  point.  The  crowd  part  before  them, 
and  shout  to  quicken  their  career.  No  drunkenness  is 
seen,  and  the  only  apparent  excess,  is  that  of  harmless 
buffoonery.  An  illumination  closed  the  festa.  In  the 
evening,  every  window   was   studded  with   lights,   and 


LUCCA.  177 

as  they  gleamed  upon  the  throng  below,  the  village  lost 
every  trace  of  its  homely  and  every-day  aspect,  and  seem- 
ed a  spot  consecrated  to  romance.  Then,  all  the  women 
appeared  beautiful.  The  hum  of  conversation  swelled 
upon  the  night- breeze,  Laughter  echoed  through  the 
streets.  Children  danced  over  the  pavement  in  transport. 
Old  men  walked  slowly,  smiling  to  their  friends.  Lovers 
'side  by  side,  grew  bold  in  their  endearments.  Jokes 
were  bandied  freely.  All  deemed  the  hour  one  of  those 
lapses  in  the  monotonous  tide  of^  life,  when  the  deep  of 
existence  ripples  sportively,  lulling  to  momentary  obliv- 
vion  all  bitter  memories,  and  throwing  nought  but  bright 
sparkles  on  the  sands  of  time.  Amid  the  surrounding 
hills,  from  the  shadowy  olive-woods,  numberless  lamps 
twinkled  in  fantastic  groups.  On  their  summits,  lights 
were  arranged  in  the  form  of  crosses.  The  sacred  sym- 
bol glittered  thus  from  afar,  like  the  vision  of  Constan- 
tino in  the  sky.  On  the  churches,  the  lamps  followed  the 
lines  of  the  architect,  making  them  appear  like  temples 
built  of  stars.  And  above  all,  in  the  midst  of  the  solemn 
firmament,  the  full  moon  sailed  in  unclouded  beauty,  as 
if  to  smile  upon  and  hallow  the  transient  reign  of  human 
festivity. 


LEAF  FROM  A  LOG. 


'  Once  more  upon  the  waters  !' 

Childe  Harold. 


Pictures  of  sea-life  generally  present  the  two  extremes 
of  truth.  When  drawn  by  the  professional  mariner,  the 
shadows  are  often  kept  wholly  out  of  view,  and  when 
depicted  by  one  to  whom  the  element  itself  and  all  the 
associations  of  shipboard  are  uncongenial,  we  have  Dr. 
Johnson's  summary  opinion  re-echoed  with  the  endorse- 
ment of  experience.  Life  at  sea,  as  everywhere  else,  iS" 
a  chequered  scene.  Nothing  can  exceed  the  melancholy 
of  a  cloudy  day  on  the  ocean,  to  the  heart  of  one  fresh 
from  endeared  localities.  The  grey  sky,  the  chilly  air 
and  the  boundless,  dark  mass  of  water  rolling  in  sullen 
gloom,  fill  the  mind  with  sombre  images.  And  when 
night  comes  over  the  deep  and  the  voyager  retires  to  his 
cabin,  to  muse  over  the  friends  and  sweet  places  of  the 
earth  left  behind, — the  creaking  of  the  strained  timbers, 
the  swaying  of  the  flickering  lamp,  and  the  gurgling  of 


LEAP   FROM    A    LOG.  179 

the  waves  at  the  stern,  deepen  the  desolate  sensations 
that  weigh  upon  his  heart.  On  the  other  hand, 
what  can  give  more  buoyancy  to*  the  spirits  than  a 
bright,  clear  day  at  sea,  when  with  a  fair  wind  and  every 
sail  filled,  the  noble  vessel  rushes  gallantly  through  the 
water  ?  It  must  be  confessed,  however,  that  there  are 
few  occasions  of  more  keen  enjoyment  than  going  on 
shore,  after  a  long  voyage.  Life  seems  renewed,  and 
old  impressions  become  fresh  when  the  loneliness  of  the 
ocean  is  all  at  once  exchanged  for  the  busy  haunts  of 
men,  the  narrow  deck  for  the  crowded  street,  the  melan- 
choly expanse  of  waves  for  the  variegated  garniture  of 
earth.  When  naught  has  met  the  eye  for  many  weeks 
but  sea  and  sky,  when  the  social  excellencies  of  a  party 
have  been  too  largely  drawn  upon  to  be  keenly  relished, 
and  the  novelties  of  voyaging  have  become  familiar,  the 
hour  of  landing  is  anticipated  with  an  eagerness  only  to 
be  realized  by  experience. 

It  was  with  no  little  impatience  that  we  awaited  the 
dawn  after  casting  anchor  in  the  bay  of  Gibraltar.  In 
this  instance  delay  was  more  irksome,  as  our  arrange- 
ments precluded  more  than  a  day's  sojourn  on  the  cele- 
brated rock.  We  found  the  town  in  a  state  of  unusual 
excitement  from  a  report  which  was  current,  of  the  near 
approach  of  the  troops  of  Don  Carlos.  The  people  of 
Saint  Roque,  the  nearest  Spanish  town,  were  flocking 
into  the  gates,  many  of  the  poorer  classes  laden  with 
their  household  effects.  Never,  to  me,  were  the  con- 
rasts  between  sea  and  land  more  striking.  The  wild 
cry  of  the  mariners  had  scarcely  died  away  upo"n  our 


180  LEAP    FROM    A    LOG. 

ears,   when  they  were  greeted    with  the  hum  of  com- 
merce, and  the  enlivening  strains  of  martial  music.     As 
we  proceeded,  groups  of  Jews  were  seen  moving  towards 
the  synagogue,  their  dark  robes  and  grey   beards  blend- 
ing with  the  bright  uniforms  of  the  English  officers  who 
gravely  trod  the  crowded  pavement.     A  swarthy  peasant 
with  a  steeple-crowned  hat,   was  violently  beating  his 
mules   in  the   middle  of  the  street,  while  directly  under 
the  wall,  a  Spanish  lady,  with  graceful  steps,  glided  on 
to  mass.     But  our  attention   was  soon  completely  ab- 
sorbed  in   a  survey   of  the   fortifications.     Many  hours 
were  spent  in  clambering  over  the  rock,  now  pausing  to 
note  the  picturesque  aspect  of    a   Moorish  castle,  and 
now  to  admire  the  marvellous  vegetation  of  a  little  gar- 
den, planted   on  a  narrow  shelf  of  the  fortress.     Here  a 
luxuriant  aloe  threw  up   its  blue  and  spear-like  leaves 
above  the  grey   stone ;    and  there,  a  venerable  goat  was    ■ 
perched  motionless  upon  a  projecting  cliff.     We  wander- 
ed through  the  extensive  galleries   cut  in  the  solid  rock, 
one  moment  struck  with  the  immense  resources  of  na- 
ture, and  the   next,  delighted  by  some  admirable  device 
of  art.     The  light    streaming  the  loop-holes,  the   large 
dark  cannon,  and  the  extraordinary  number  and  extent 
of  these   galleries,  fill  the  mind  with   a  kind  of  awe. 
At  one  of  the  most  central  points,  we  paused  and  gazed 
down  upon  the  bay.     Our  vessel  seemed  dwindled  to  the 
size  of  a  pleasure-boat.     Opposite,  appeared  the  town  of 
Algeciras,  and   immediately  below,  the   neutral  land  be- 
tween the   Spanish  and   British  territory.     This  is  the 
duelling-ground  of  the  garrison,  and  near  by  is  a  cluster 


LEAF    FROM    A    LOG.  181 

of  graves.  The  water  was  covered  with  foam.  The 
wind  swept  with  a  melancholy  roar  round  the  immense 
rock.  Our  voices  echoed^through  the  long,  vaulted  arch- 
way. As  we  clustered  about  the  cannon,  looking  forth 
from  that  dizzy  height  upon  the  extensive  prospect,  while 
our  guide  rehearsed  the  capabilities  of  the  position,  and 
pointed  out  the  memorable  points  of  the  landscape,  we 
fully  realized  the  impregnable  strength  of  Gibraltar.  Be- 
fore dusk  we  were  under  way,  and  rounding  the  majestic 
rock,  soon  lost  sight  of  its  scattered  lights  and  huge  form 
towerinof  throuiih  the  twiliorht.  The  American  Consul 
bade  us  adieu  at  the  pier,  and  the  facilities  he  had  afford- 
ed us  during  the  day,  led  me  to  reflect  upon  the  impor- 
tance of  this  oflice  abroad,  and  the  singular  neglect  of  our 
government  to  its  claims.  Politicians,  among  us,  are  so 
absorbed  in  temporary  questions  and  immediate  objects, 
that  it  is  difficult  to  attract  their  attention  to  any  foreign 
interest.  Yet,  in  a  patriotic  point  of  view,  there  are 
few  subjects  more  worthy  of  the  consideration  of  political 
reformers,  than  our  consular  system.  Of  the  utter  in- 
difference  with  which  these  offices  are  regarded,  there 
are  many  evidences.  A  very  gentlemanly  man  who  had 
fulfilled  the  duties  of  United  States  Consul,  at  one  of  the 
Mediterranean  ports,  for  more  than  twenty  years,  was 
waited  upon  one  morning,  by  a  stranger,  who  demanded 
the  seal  and  books  of  the  consulate,  showing  a  commis- 
sion  empowering  him  to  fill  the  station.  Common 
decency,  to  say  nothing  of  civility,  would  require  that 
this  gentleman  should  have  received  some  official  notice 
of  his  expulsion.     But  the  most  curious   circumstanc 

16 


182  LEAF    FROJi    A    LOG. 

in  the  case  was,  that,  after  a  month  had  elapsed,  the  new 
consul  renewed  his  call,  and  stating  he  found  the  fees 
inadequate   to  his   support,   destroyed    his   commission, 
and  departed.     Another  old  incumbent,  deservedly  popu- 
lar, discovered,  for  the  first  time,  through  the  public  prints, 
that  his  office  had  been  abolished  for  more   than  a  year. 
At  present,  these  offices  are  chiefly  held  by  merchants, 
whose  personal  interests  are  continually  liable  to  conflict 
with  their  duty  as    public  servants.     Our  consuls,  too, 
usually  depend  upon   fees  for  remuneration,  and  a  large 
part  of  these  are  paid  by  travellers.     Those   who  make 
several  successive  visits  to  the  same  city,  paying,  at  each 
departure,  for  the  consul's  signature  to  their  passports, 
cannot  but  feel  annoyed  at  a  tax  from  which  other  stran- 
gers are  exempt.     If  salaries  were  instituted,  proportioned 
to  the  labor  and  importance  of  each  station,  and  liberal 
enough  to  secure  the  services  of  able  men,  the  result,  in 
every  point  of  view,  would  be  excellent.     Generous  and 
enlightened  views  of  national  intercourse,  are  now  rapid- 
ly prevailing,  and   our  country  should  be  the  first  to  give 
them  a  practical  influence.     The  French  system  is  pro- 
gressive, and  the  consuls   are,  therefore,   regularly   edu- 
cated for  their  duty.     The  English  consuls  are  accustom- 
ed to  furnish  the  home-department  with  useful  statistical 
information,  which  is  of  eminent  service  to  the  merchant 
manfacturer,  and  political  economist.     If  these  inquirie  s 
were  extended  to  scientific  and  other  general  subjects,  it  i^ 
easy  to  perceive  how  extensively  useful  the  consular  of- 
fice might  become.     If  there  is  any  country,  which,    in 
the  present  condition  of  the  world,  should  be  worthily  re- 


LEAF    FROM    A    LOG.  183 

presented,  it  is  the  United  States.  The  extent  of  our 
commercial  relations,  and  the  rapid  increase  of  American 
travellers  require  it ;  but  the  honor  of  a  young  and  pros, 
parous  nation,  and  fidelity  to  the  important  principles  of 
freedom  and  popular  education  we  piofess,  are  still  higher 
reasons.  Men  of  intelligence  and  observation,  who  shall 
command  the  respect  of  their  countrymen,  and  of  the 
courts  to  which  they  are  sent,  should  be  placed  at  these 
posts  of  duty.  Party  feeling  should  be  waived  in  such 
appointments.  They  should  be  regarded  not  merely  as 
affording  protection  and  facilitating  intercourse,  but  as 
involving  high  responsibility,  and  furnishing  occasion  for 
various  usefulness.  Our  consuls  should  have  the  inter- 
ests of  their  country  at  heart,  not  only  as  diplomatists 
but,  if  possible,  as  men  of  literature  and  science,  and,  at 
all  events,  as  enlightened  and  generous  patriots. 

Day  after  day,  we  proceeded  constantly  in  view  of  the 
Spanish  coast.  It  was  delightful,  at  early  morning,  to 
trace  the  fine  outline  of  the  mountains,  broken,  occasion- 
ally, by  a  watch-tower,  or,  at  sunset,  behold  the  rich  glow 
gather  upon  their  summits,  and  suff'use  their  misty  robes 
with  beautiful  hues.  The  still  grandeur  of  the  hills  of 
Spain  thus  bathed  in  softened  tints,  was  in  striking  con- 
trast to  the  civil  feud  then  devastating  the  country.  Lean- 
ing over  the  bulwarks,  I  loved  to  gaze  upon  these  magni- 
ficent boundaries  of  a  chivalrous  land,  and  muse  upon  the 
decayed  splendor  of  the  Alhambra,  the  rich  humor  of  Don 
Quixote,  or  the  wrongs  and  triumphs  of  Columbus.  On 
a  clear  and  delightful  morning,  we  came  in  view  of  Malta. 
Perhaps  there  is  no  spot  of  such  diminutive  extent,  that 


184  LEAF    FROM    A    LOG. 

can  boast  an  equal  renown.     Although  a  mere  calcare- 
ous rock,  its  commanding  position  early  attracted    the 
arms   of  the    Cathagenians,  who   were   dispossessed   by 
the   Romans.     The  island  was  occupied,  in    the  middle 
ages,  by  the   Saracens  and  Normans,  and   in  1530,  con 
ferred,  by  Charles  V.,  upon  the   knights   of  Saint  John 
who    had    been  expelled    from    Rhodes    by  the    Turks 
Thenceforth,  Malta  exhibited  a  new   aspect.     Fortifica 
tions  of  great  extent  and   admirable  construction  arose 
The  one  small  stream  of  fresh   water  was   carried  to  Ya 
letta  by  an  acqueduct  of  a  thousand   arches.     The  noble 
church  dedicated  to  the  patron  saint  of  the  order  arose.     A 
hospital  was  built  to  accommodate  two  thousand  patients, 
and  the  vessels  used  in  its    service,  were  of  solid  silver. 
Earth  from  Sicily,  was  spread  over  the  rock,  which  soon 
presented  tints  of  lively  green  to  contrast   with  the  grey- 
ish-yellowhue  of  the  forts,  and  the    deep  blue  of  the  sea. 
As  we  were  not  permitted  immediately  to  land,  I  had  am- 
ple opportunity  to  contemplate   the    interesting   scene. 
Several  vessels  of  war  were  lying  in  the  harbor,  their  large, 
dark  hulls   casting  broad  and  imposing  shadows.     The 
castles  of  Saint  Angelo  and  Saint  Elmo,  presented  their 
batteries  at  opposite  angles,  reviving  the  associations  of 
the  memorable  sieges  which  the  knights  so  courageously 
sustained.     On  one  of  these    occasions,   when  the  posi- 
tion of  the  enemy  intervened  between  the  two  forts,  their 
situation  is  described  as    trying  in  the  extreme.     The 
waves  were  dyed  with  blood.     The  bodies  of  the  knights 
who  perished  at  Saint  Elmo,  floated  to  the  foot  of  Saint 
Angeloj  and  were  buried  there.     Many  of  them  were  hor- 


LEAF    FROM    A    LOG.     -  186 

ribly  mangled,  and  the  cross  cut  in  derision  upon  their 
breasts.  At  night,  the  fire  wheels  and  other  engines,  il- 
luminated the  scene  of  battle.  The  brave  champions  of 
Christianity,  met,  for  the  last  time,  in  their  council  hall, 
wounded  and  spent  with  fatigue,  and,  having  partaken  of 
the  last  religious  rite,  vowed  to  sacrifice  themselves,  and 
return  once  more  to  the  defence.  When  the  moon  arose, 
and  poured  her  tranquil  light  upon  the  harbor,  its  peace- 
ful beauty  rendered  such  retrospections  more  difficult  to 
realize.  The  water  rippled  playfully  around  the  mossy 
walls  of  the  forts.     The  mild  lustre  fell  serenely  upon  the 

»tile.covered  roofs  of  the  town,  and  bathed  the  lofty  dome 
of  the  Cathedral.  The  crowd  passed  cheerfully  along 
the  quay,  and  the  echo  of  a  mariner's  song  alone  disturb- 

,  ed  the  silence  of  night.  Now  and  then  a  beat  shot 
across  the  bay  with  its  complement  of  passengers — a 
priest,  a  soldier,  and  one  or  two  female  figures,  shrouded 
in  black  silk.  It  was  impossible  to  peruse  the  scene  and 
not  revert  to  those  fierce  struggles  between  the  crescent 
and  the  cross,  and  dwell  upon  the  'devoted  enthusiasm 
which  led  so  many  of  the  young  and  the  brave  to  assume 
the  black  mantle  and  holy  symbol  of  Christian  knight- 
hood. The  inspiration  of  a  Southern  night  aided  the 
imagination  in  conjuring  from  the  bosom  of  the  quiet  wa- 
ters, the  buried  tales  of  romantic  valor.  Such  dreams 
were  soon  dispelled  upon  landing,  for  the  Nix-Mangare 
stairs  leading  to  the  town,  are  always  thronged  with  the 
most  importunate  beggars.  In  the  principal  street,  some 
laborers  were  digging  the  foundation  of  a  house.  The 
cellar  is  made  by  merely  throwing  out  the  calcareous  soil 
16* 


186  LEAF    FROM    A    LOG. 

which  forms  very  good  material  for  building.  When 
used,  however,  for  floors,  it  is  necessary  to  harden  the  sur- 
face  of  the  Malta  stone  with  varnish  or  oil.  A  friend  of 
mine,  at  Palermo,  who  paved  his  house  with  this  materi- 
al, and  neglected  thus  to  prepare  it,  discovered  his  mistake 
in  a  very  unpleasant  manner.  Soon  after  taking  posses- 
sion of  his  residence,  he  gave  a  ball.  After  the  third  or 
fourth  dance,  the  gentlemen's  coats  were  white  with  pow- 
der, the  air  of  the  rooms  was  filled  with  fine  dust,  and  the 
next  day,  every  one  of  the  company  complained  of  a  sore 
throat.  We  lodged  at  a  hotel,  formerly  a  knight's  pal- 
ace, every  apartment  of  which  is  of  noble  dimensions, 
and  richly  decorated.  The  Grand  Master's  residence, 
the  splendid  armory,  the  long  lines  of  bastions,  and  the 
monuments  in  the  church  of  Saint  John,  are  the  most  in- 
teresting memorials  of  the  knights.  The  old  pits  excava- 
ted for  preserving  grain,  which  has  been  thus  kept  for 
an  entire  century,  are  still  used  for  a  similar  purpose. 
A  column  on  one  of  the  ramparts,  commemorates  the  ser- 
vices of  Sir  Alexander  Ball,  to  whom  Coleridge  pays  so 
high  a  tribute  in  the  Friend.  The  gay  uniforms  of  the 
English  officers  give  a  lively  air  to  the  narrow  streets  of 
Malta.  At  the  opera,  between  the  acts,  the  orchestra  per- 
form "  God  save  the  King,"  and  every  individual  rises 
and  remains  attentively  standing  until  the  music  ceases 
This  silent  recognition  of  national  feeling,  in  a  foreign 
land  is  impressive  and  touching.  Malta  will  not  long 
detain  the  curious  traveller,  when  so  near  more  interest 
ing  localities.  But  while  the  novelty  of  its  peculiar  fea 
tures  is  fresh  to  the   mind,    they    cannot  fail  to  amuse. 


LEAF    FROM    A    LOG.  187 

There  is  a  remarkable  unity  in  the  associations  of  the 
place,  connected  as  they  are,  almost  exclusively  with  the 
knights.  A  great  variet)  in  costume,  and  sundry  singu- 
larities in  the  habits  and  dialects  of  the  natives,  afford  a 
fund  of  entertainment  for  a  few  days'  sojourn.  The  Mal- 
tese still  complain  loudly  of  their  grievances,  and  have 
but  recently  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  freedom  of  their 
press.  Their  African  origin  is  strongly  indicated  in  their 
complexions  and  cast  of  features.  Yet  not  unfrequently, 
from  one  of  the  grotesque  balconies,  a  dark  eye  gleams, 
or  a  form  is  visible,  which  stays  the  steps,  and  provokes 
the  sigh  of  the  stranger. 


THOUGHTS  ON  THE  POETS, 


GOLDSMITH. 


It  is  sometimes  both  pleasing  and  profitable  to  recur  to 
those  characters  in  literary  history  who  are  emphatically 
favorites,  and  to  glance  at  the  cause  of  their  popularity. 
Such  speculations  frequently  afford  more  important  results 
than  the  mere  gratification  of  curiosity.  They  often  lead 
to  a  clearer  perception  of  the  true  tests  of  genius,  and 
indicate  the  principle  and  methods  by  which  the  common 
mind  may  be  most  successfully  addressed.  The  advantage 
of  such  retrospective  inquiries  is  still  greater  at  a  period 
like  the  present,  when  there  is  such  an  obvious  tendency 
to  innovate  upon  some  of  the  best- established  theories  of 
Wte  ;  when  the  passion  for  novelty  seeks  for  such  unli- 
censed  indulgence,  and  invention  seems  to  exhaust  itself 
rather  upon  forms  than  ideas.  In  literature,  especiall}'-, 
we  appear  to  be  daily  losing  one  of  the  most  valuable 
elements — simplicity.  The  prevalent  taste  is  no  longer 
gratified  with  the  natural.  There  is  a  growing  appetite 
for  what  is  startling  and  peculiar,  seldom  accompanied  by 
any  discriminating  demand  for  the  true  and  original ;  and 


192  GOLDSMITH. 

yet,  experience  has  fully  proved  that  these  last  are  the 
only  permanent  elements  of  literature  ;  and  no  healthy 
mind,  cognizant  of  its  own  history,  is  unaware  that  the 
only  intellectual  aliment  which  never  palls  upon  the  taste, 
is  that  which  is  least  indebted  to  extraneous  accompani. 
ments  for  its  relish. 

It  is  ever  refreshing  to  revert  to   first  principles.     The 
study  of  the  old  masters  may  sometimes  make  the  modern 
artist  despair  of  his  own  efforts  ;  but  if  he  have  the  genius 
to  discover,  and  follow  out  the  great  principle  upon  which 
they  wrought,  he  will  not  have  contemplated  their  works 
in  vain.     He  will  have  learned  that  devotion  to    nature 
is  the  grand  secret  of  progress  in  art,  and  that  the  success 
of  her  votaries  depends   upon  the  singleness,  constancy, 
and  intelligence  of  their  worship.     If  there  is  not  enthu- 
siasm enough  to  kindle  this  flame  in  its  purity,  nor  energy 
sufficient  to  fulfil    the  sacrifice  required   at    that    high 
altar,  let  not  the  young  aspirant  enter  the  priesthood    of 
art.     When  the  immortal  painter  of  the  Transfiguration 
was  asked  to  embody  his  ideal  of  perfect  female  loveliness, 
he  replied — there  would  still  bean  infinite  distance  between 
his  work  and  the  existent  original.     In  this  profound  and 
vivid  perception   of  the  beautiful  in  nature,  we  perceive 
the  origin  of  those  lovely  creations,  which,  for  more  than 
three  hundred  years,  have  delighted  mankind.     And  it  is 
equally  true  of  the  pen  as  the  pencil,  that  what  is  drawn 
from  life  and  the  heart,  alone  bears  the  impress  of  immor- 
tality.    Yet  the  practical  faith  of  our  day  is  diametrically 
opposed  to  this  truth.     The  writers  of  our  times  are  con- 
stantly making  use  of  artificial  enginery.     They  have,  for 


I 


GOLDSMITH.  193 

the  most  part,  abandoned  the  integrity  of  purpose  and 
earnest  directness  of  earlier  epochs.  There  is  less  faith, 
as  we  before  said,  in  the  natural ;  and  when  we  turn  from 
the  midst  of  the  forced  and  hot- bed  products  of  the  mo- 
dern school,  and  ramble  in  the  garden  of  old  English  lit- 
erature, a  cool  and  calm  refreshment  invigorates  the 
spirit,  like  the  first  breath  of  mountain  air  to  the  weary- 
wayfarer. 

There  are  few  writers  of  the  period  more  generally  be- 
loved than  Dr.  Goldsmith.  Of  his  contemporaries 
Burke  excelled  him  in  splendor  of  diction,  and  Johnson 
in  depth  of  thought.  The  former  continues  to  enjoy  a 
larger  share  of  admiration,  and  the  latter  of  respect,  but 
the  labors  of  their  less  pretending  companion  have  se- 
cured him  a  far  richer  heritage  of  love.  Of  all  posthu- 
mous tributes  to  genius,  this  seems  the  most  truly  desira- 
ble. It  recognizes  the  man  as  well  as  the  author.  It  is 
called  forth  by  more  interesting  characteristics  than  tal- 
ent. It  bespeaks  a  greater  than  ordinary  association  of 
the  individual  with  his  works,  and  looking  beyond  the 
mere  embodiment  of  his  intellect,  it  gives  assurance  of  an 
attractiveness  in  his  character  which  has  made  itself  felt 
even  through  the  artificial  medium  of  writing.  The  au- 
thors are  comparatively  few,  who  have  awakened  this  feel- 
ing of  personal  interest  and  affection.  It  is  common,  in- 
deed, for  any  writer  of  genius  to  inspire  emotions  of  gra- 
titude in  the  breasts  of  those  susceptible  to  the  charm,  but 
the  instances  are  rare  in  which  this  sentiment  is  vivified 
and  elevated  into  positive  affection.  And  few,  I  appre- 
hend, among  the  wits  and  poets  of  old   England,  have 

17 


194  GOLDSMITH. 

more  widely  awakened  it  than  Oliver  Goldsmith.  I  have 
said  this  kind  of  literary  fame  was  eminently  desirable. 
There  is,  indeed,  something  inexpressibly  touching  in  the 
thought  of  one  of  the  gifted  of  our  race,  attaching  to  him- 
self  countless  hearts  by  the  force  of  a  charm  woven  in  by. 
gone  years,  when  environed  by  neglect  and  discourage- 
ment. Though  a  late,  it  is  a  beautiful  recompense,  trans- 
cending mere  critical  approbation,  or  even  the  reverence 
men  offer  to  the  monuments  of  mind.  VVe  can  conceive 
of  no  motive  to  effort  which  can  be  presented  to  a  man  of 
true  feeling,  like  the  hope  of  winning  the  love  of  his  kind 
by  the  faithful  exhibition  of  himself.  It  is  a  nobler  pur- 
pose than  that  entertained  by  heartless  ambition.  The 
appeal  is  not  merely  to  the  judgment  and  imagination,  it 
is  to  the  universal  heart  of  mankind.  Such  fame  is  em- 
phatically rich.  It  gains  its  possessor  warm  friends  in. 
stead  of  mere  admirers.  To  establish  such  an  inheri- 
tance in  the  breast  of  humanity,  were  indeed  worthy  of 
sacrifice  and  toil.  It  is  an  offering  not  only  to  intellec- 
tual but  to  moral  graces,  and  its  possession  argues  for  the 
sons  of  fame  holier  qualities  than  genius  itself.  It  elo- 
quently indicates  that  its  subject  is  not  only  capable  of 
interesting  the  general  mind  by  the  power  of  his  crea- 
tions, but  of  captivating  the  feelings  by  the  earnest  beauty 
of  his  nature.  Of  all  oblations,  therefore,  we  deem  it  the 
most  valuable.  It  is  this  sentiment  with  which  the  lovers 
of  painting  regard  the  truest  interpreters  of  the  art.  They 
wonder  at  Michael  Angelo  but  love  Raphael,  and  gaze 
upon  the  pensively  beautiful  delineation  he  has  left  us  of 
himself,  with  the  regretful  tenderness  with  which  we  look 


GOLDSMITH.  195 

upon  the  portrait  of  a  departed  friend.  The  devotees  of 
music,  too,  dwell  with  glad  astonishment  upon  the  cele- 
brated operas  ofRosini  and  some  of  the  German  compo- 
sers, but  the  memory  of  Bellini  is  absolutely  loved.  It  is 
well  remarked  by  one  of  Goldsmith's  biographers,  that  the 
very  fact  of  his  being  spoken  of  always  with  the  epithet 
<' poor"  attached  to  his  name,  is  sufficient  evidence  of  the 
kind  of  fame  he  eujoys.  Whence,  then,  the  peculiar  at- 
traction of  his  writings,  and  wherein  consists  the  spell 
which  has  so  long  rendered  his  works  the  favorites  of  so 
many  and  such  a  variety  of  readers  ? 

The  primary  and  all-pervading  charm  of  Goldsmith  is 
his  truth.  It  is  interesting  to  trace  this  delightful  charac- 
teristic, as  it  exhibits  itself  not  less  in  his  life  than  in  his 
writings.  We  see  it  displayed  in  the  remarkable  frank- 
ness which  distinguished  his  intercourse  with  others,  and 
in  that  winning  simplicity  which  so  frequently  excited  the 
contemptuous  laugh  of  the  worldly-wise,  but  failed  not  to 
draw  towards  him  the  more  valuable  sympatliies  of  less 
perverted  natures.  All  who  have  sketched  his  biography 
unite  in  declaring,  that  he  could  not  dissemble ;  and  we 
have  a  good  illustration  of  his  want  of  tact  in  concealing 
a  defect,  in  the  story  which  is  related  of  him  at  the  time 
of  his  unsuccessful  attempt  at  medical  practice  in  Edin- 
burgh— when,  his  only  velvet  coat  being  deformed  by  a 
huge  patch  on  the  right  breast,  he  was  accustomed,  while 
in  the  drawing-room,  to  cover  it  in  ihe  most  awkward 
manner  with  his  hat.  It  was  his  natural  truthfulness 
which  led  him  to  so  candid  and  habitual  a  confession  of 
his  faults.    Johnson  ridiculed  him  for  so  freely  describing 


196  GOLDSMITU. 

the  state  of  his  feelings  during  the  representation  of  his 
first  play  ;  and,  throughout  his  life,  the  perfect  honesty  of 
his  spirit  made  him  the  subject  of  innumerable  practical 
jokes.  Credulity  is  perhaps  a  weakness  almost  insepara- 
ble from  eminently  truthful  characters.  Yet,  if  such  is  the 
case,  it  does  not  in  the  least  diminish  our  faith  in  the  su- 
periority and  value  of  such  characters.  Waiving  all  moral 
considerations,  we  believe  it  can  be  demonstrated  that 
truth  is  one  of  the  most  essential  elements  of  real  great- 
ness, and  surest  means  of  eminent  success.  Manage- 
ment, chicanery  and  cunning,  may  advance  men  in  the 
career  of  the  world  ;  it  may  forward  the  views  of  the  poli- 
tician, and  clear  the  way  of  the  diplomatist.  But  when 
humanity  is  to  be  addressed  in  the  universal  language  of 
genius  ;  when,  through  the  medium  of  literature  or  art, 
man  essays  to  reach  the  heart  of  his  kind,  the  more  sin- 
cere the  appeal,  the  surer  its  effect ;  the  more  direct  the 
call,  the  deeper  the  response.  In  a  word,  the  more  large- 
ly truth  enters  into  a  work,  the  more  certain  the  fame  of 
its  author.  But  a  few  months  since,  I  saw  the  Parisian 
populace  crowding  around  the  church  where  the  remains 
of  Talleyrand  lay  in  state,  but  the  fever  of  curiosity  alone 
gleamed  from  their  eyes,  undimmed  by  tears.  When 
Goldsmith  died,  Reynolds,  then  in  the  full  tide  of  suc- 
cess, threw  his  pencil  aside  in  sorrow,  and  Burke  turned 
from  the  fast-brightening  vision  of  renown,  to  weep. 

Truth  is  an  endearing  quality.  None  are  so  beloved 
as  the  ingenuous.  We  feel  in  approaching  them  that  the 
look  of  welcome  is  unaffected — that  the  friendly  grasp  is 
from  the  heart,  and  we  regret  their  departure  as  an  actual 


GOLDSMITH.  197 

loss.  And  not  less  winningly  shines  this  high  and  sa- 
cred principle  through  the  labours  of  genius.  It  immor- 
talizes history — it  is  the  true  origin  of  eloquence,  and 
constitutes  the  living  charm  of  poetry.  When  Goldsmith 
penned  the  lines — 


To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm  than  all  the  gloss  of  art, 


he  furnished  the  key  to  his  peculiar  genius,  and  recorded 
the  secret  which  has  embalmed  his  memory.  It  was  the 
clearness  of  his  own  soul  which  reflected  so  truly  the 
imagery  of  life.  He  did  but  transcribe  the  unadorned 
convictions  that  glowed  in  his  mind,  and  faithfully  traced 
the  pictures  which  nature  threw  upon  the  mirror  of  his 
fancy.  Hence  the  unrivalled  excellence  of  his  descrip- 
tions. Rural  life  has  never  found  a  sweeter  eulogist.  To 
countless  memories  have  his  village  landscapes  risen 
pleasantly,  when  the  "  murmur"  rose  at  eventide. 
Where  do  we  not  meet  with  a  kind-hearted  philosopher 
delighting  in  some  speculative  hobby,  equally  dear  as  the 
good  Vicar's  theory  of  Monogamy  ?  The  vigils  of  many 
an  ardent  student  have  been  beguiled  by  his  portraiture  of 
a  country  clergyman — brightening  the  dim  vista  of  futu- 
rity as  his  own  ideal  of  destiny ;  and  who  has  not,  at 
times,  caught  the  very  solace  of  retirement  from  his 
sweet  apostrophe  ? 

The  genius  of  Goldsmith  was  chiefly  fertilized  by  ob- 
servation.    He  was  not  one  of  those  who  regard  books 
as  the  only,  or  even  the  principal  sources  of  knowledge* 
17* 


198  GOLDSMITH. 

He  recognised  and  delighted  to  study  the  unwritten  lore 
so  richly  spread  over  the  volume  of  nature,  and  shadowed 
forth  so  variously  from  the  scenes  of  every-day  life  and 
the  teachings  of  individual  experience.  There  is  a  class 
of  minds,  second  to  none  in  native  acuteness  and  reflec- 
tive power,  so  constituted  as  to  flourish  almost  exclusive- 
ly by  observation.  Too  impatient  of  restraint  to  endure 
the  long  vigils  of  the  scholar,  they  are  yet  keenly  alive  to 
every  idea  and  truth  which  is  evolved  from  life.  Without 
a  tithe  of  that  spirit  of  application  that  binds  the  German 
student  for  years  to  his  familiar  tomes,  they  suffer  not  a 
single  impression  which  events  or  character  leave  upon 
their  memories  to  pass  unappreciated.  Unlearned,  in  a 
great  measure,  in  the  history  of  the  past,  the  present  is 
not  allowed  to  pass  without  eliciting  their  intelligent  com- 
ment. Unskilled  in  the  technicalities  of  learning,  they 
contrive  to  appropriate,  with  surprising  facility,  the  wis- 
dom born  of  the  passing  moment.  No  striking  trait  of 
character — no  remarkable  eflcet  in  nature — none  of  the 
phenomena  of  social  existence,  escape  them.  Like  Ho. 
garth,  they  are  constantly  enriching  themselves  with 
sketches  from  life  ;  and,  as  he  drew  street-wonders  upon 
his  thumb-nail,  they  note  and  remember,  and  afterwards 
elaborate  and  digest  whatever  of  interest  experience  af. 
fords.  Goldsmith  was  a  true  specimen  of  this  class. 
He  vindicated,  indeed,  his  claim  to  the  title  of  scholar,  by 
research  and  study  ;  but  the  field  most  congenial  to  his 
taste,  was  the  broad  universe  of  nature  and  man.  It  was 
his  love  of  observation  which  gave  zest  to  the  roving  life 
he  began  so  early  to  indulge.     His  boyhood  was  passed 


GOLDSMITH.  199 

in  a  constant  succession  of  friendly  visits.  He  was  ever 
migrating  from  the  house  of  one  kinsman  or  friend  to 
that  of  another;  and  on  these  occasions,  as  well  as  when 
at  home,  he  was  silently  but  faithfully  observing.  The 
result  is  easily  traced  in  his  writings.  Few  authors,  in- 
deed, are  so  highly  indebted  to  personal  observation  for 
their  materials.  It  is  well  known  that  the  original  of  the 
Vicar  of  Wakefield  was  his  own  father.  Therein  has  he 
embodied  in  a  charming  manner  his  early  recollections  of 
his  parent,  and  the  picture  is  rendered  still  more  com- 
plete in  his  papers  on  the  "  Man  in  Black."  The  in- 
imitable description,  too,  of  the  "  Village  Schoolmaster," 
is  drawn  from  the  poet's  early  teacher  ;  and  the  veteran, 
who  "  shouldered  his  crutch  and  told  how  fields  were 
won,"  had  often  shared  the  hospitality  of  his  father's  roof. 
The  leading  incident  in  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,"  was 
his  own  adventure  ;  and  there  is  little  question,  that,  in 
the  quaint  tastes  of  Mr.  Burchell,  he  aimed  to  exhibit 
many  of  his  own  peculiar  traits.  But  it  is  not  alone  in 
the  leading  characters  of  his  novel,  pliys  and  poems,  that 
we  discover  Goldsmith's  observing  power.  It  is  equally 
discernible  throughout  his  essays  and  desultory  papers. 
Most  of  his  illustrations  arc  borrowed  from  personal  ex- 
perience, and  his  opinions  are  generally  founded  upon 
experiment.  His  talent  for  fresh  and  vivid  delineation, 
is  ever  most  prominently  displayed  when  he  is  describing 
what  he  actually  witnessed,  or  drawing  from  the  rich  fund 
of  his  early  impressions  or  subsequent  adventures.  ]Vo 
appeal  to  humor,  curiosity,  or  imagination,  was  unheed- 
ed ;  and  it  is  the  blended  pictures  he  contrived  to  com- 


200  GOLDSMITH. 

bine  from  these  cherished  associations,  that  impart  so 
lively  an  interest  to  his  pages.  One  moment  we  find 
him  noting,  with  philosophic  sympathy,  the  pastimes  of  a 
foreign  peasantry,  and,  another,  studying  the  operations 
of  a  spider  at  his  garret  window, — now  busy  in  nomeu- 
elating  the  peculiarities  of  the  Dutch,  and  anon  alluding  to 
the  exhibition  of  Cherokee  Indians.  The  natural  effect 
of  this  thirst  for  experimental  knowledge,  was  to  beget  a 
love  for  foreign  travel.  Accordingly,  we  find  that  Gold- 
smith, after  exhausting  the  narrow  circle  which  his  limi- 
ted  means  could  compass  at  home,  projected  a  contiuen- 
tial  tour,  and  long  cherished  the  hope  of  visiting  the  East. 
Indeed,  we  could  scarcely  have  a  stronger  proof  of  his  en- 
thusiasm,  than  the  long  journey  he  undertook  and  actually 
accomplished  on  foot.  The  remembrance  of  his  roman- 
tic wanderings  over  Holland,  France,  Germany,  and 
Italy,  imparts  a  singular  interest  to  his  writings.  It  was 
indeed  worthy  of  a  true  poet  that,  enamored  of  nature  and 
delighting  in  the  observation  of  his  species,  he  should 
thus  manfully  go  forth,  with  no  companion  but  his  flute, 
and  wander  over  these  fair  lands  hallowed  by  past  associa- 
tions and  existent  beauty.  A  rich  and  happy  era  despite 
its  moments  of  discomfort,  to  such  a  spirit,  was  that  year 
of  solitary  pilgrimage.  Happy  and  proud  must  have  been 
the  imaginative  pedestrian,  as  he  reposed  his  weary  frame 
in  the  peasant's  cottage  "  beside  the  murmuring  Loire  ;" 
and  happier  still  when  he  stood  amid  the  green  valleys  of 
Switzerland,  and  looked  around  upon  her  snow-capt  hills, 
hailed  the  old  towers  of  Verona,  or  entered  the  gate  of 
Florence — the  long-anticipated  goals  to  which  his  weary 


GOLDSMITH.  201 

footsteps  had  so  patiently  tended.  If  any  thing  could 
enhance  the  pleasure  of  musing  amid  these  scenes  of 
poetic  interest,  it  must  have  been  the  consciousness  of 
having  reached  them  by  so  gradual  and  self-denying  a 
progress.  There  is,  in  truth,  no  more  characteristic  por- 
tion of  Goldsmith's  biography,  than  that  which  records 
this  remarkable  tour  ;  and  there  are  few  more  striking 
instances  of  the  available  worth  of  talent.  Unlike  the 
bards  of  old,  he  won  not  his  way  to  shelter  and  hospitality 
by  appealing  to  national  feeling ;  for  the  lands  through 
which  he  roamed  were  not  his  own,  and  the  lay  of  the  last 
Minstrel  had  long  since  died  away  in  oblivion.  But  he 
gained  the  ready  kindness  of  the  peasantry  by  playing  the 
flute,  as  they  danced  in  the  intervals  of  toil  ;  and  won  the 
favor  of  the  learned  by  successful  disputation  at  the  con- 
vents and  universities — a  method  of  rewarding  talent 
which  was  extensively  practised  in  Europe  at  that  period. 
Thus,  solely  befriended  by  his  wits,  the  roving  poet  ram- 
bled over  the  continent,  and,  notwithstanding  the  vicissi- 
tudes  incident  to  so  precarious  a  mode  of  seeing  the  world, 
to  a  mind  like  his,  there  was  ample  compensation  in  the 
superior  opportunities  for  observation  thus  afforded.  He 
mingled  frankly  with  the  people,  and  saw  things  as  they 
were.  The  scenery  which  environed  him  flitted  not  be- 
fore his  senses,  like  the  shifting  scenes  of  a  panorama, 
but  became  familiar  to  his  eye  under  the  changing  aspects 
of  time  and  season.  Manners  and  customs  he  quietly 
studied,  with  the  advantage  of  sufficient  opportunity  to  in- 
stitute just  comparisons  and  draw  fair  inferences.  In 
short,  Goldsmith  was  no  tyro  in  the  philosophy  of  travel ; 


202  GOLDSMITH. 

and,  although  the  course  he  pursued  was  dictated  by  ne- 
cessity,  its  superior  results  are  abundantly  evidenced 
throughout  his  works.  We  have,  indeed,  no  formal  nar- 
rative of  his  journeyings ;  but  what  is  better,  there  is 
scarcely  a  page  thrown  off,  *to  supply  the  pressing  wants 
of  the  moment,  which  is  not  enriched  by  some  pleasing 
reminiscence  or  sensible  thought,  garnered  from  the  re- 
collection and  scenes  of  that  long  pilgrimage.  Nor  did 
he  fail  to  embody  the  prominent  impressions  of  so  inte- 
resting an  epoch  of  his  chequered  life,  in  a  more  endur- 
ing and  beautiful  form.  The  poem  of  "  The  Traveller," 
originally  sketched  in  Switzerland,  was  subsequently  re- 
vised and  extended.  It  was  the  foundation  of  Gold- 
smith's poetical  fame.  The  subject  evinces  the  taste  of 
the  author.  The  unpretending  vein  of  enthusiasm  which 
runs  through  it,  is  only  equalled  by  the  force  and  simpli- 
city of  the  style.  The  rapid  sketches  of  the  several  coun- 
tries it  presents,  are  vigorous  and  pleasing  ;  and  the  re- 
flections  interspersed,  abound  with  that  truly  humane 
spirit,  and  that  deep  sympathy  with  the  good,  the  beautiful, 
and  the  true,  which  distinguishes  the  poet.  This  produc- 
tion may  be  regarded  as  the  author's  first  deliberate  at- 
tempt in  the  career  of  genius.  It  went  through  nine  edi- 
tions during  his  life,  and  its  success  contributed,  in  a 
great  measure,  to  encourage  and  sustain  him  in  future  and 
less  genial  efforts. 

The  faults  which  are  said  to  have  deformed  the  character 
of  Goldsmith,  belong  essentially  to  the  class  of  foibles 
rather  than  absolute  and  positive  errors-  Recent  biogra- 
phers agree  in  the  opinion,  that  his   alleged  devotion  to 


GOLDSMITH.  203 

play   has  either  been  grossly  exaggerated,  or  was  but  a 
temporary  mania ;  and   we  should   infer  from  his   own 
allusion  to  the  subject,  that  he  had,  with  the  flexibility  of 
disposition  that  belonged  to  him,  yielded  only  so  far  to 
its  seductions   as  to  learn  from  experience  the   supreme 
folly  of  the  practice.     It  is  at  all  events  certain,  that  his 
means  were  too  restricted,  and  his  time,  while  in  London 
too  much  occupied,  to  allow  of  his  enacting  the  part  of  a 
regular  and  professed   gamester  ;  and  during  the  latter 
and  most  busy  years  of  his  life,  we   have  the   testimony 
of  the   members  of  the  celebrated   club  to    which  he   was 
attached,  to  the  temperance  and  industry  of  his  habits. 
Another,  and   in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  perhaps,  greater 
weakness  recorded  of  him,  was  a  mawkish  vanity,  some, 
times  accompanied  by  jealousy  of  more  successful  com- 
petitors for  the  honors  of  literature.     Some  anecdotes, 
illustrative  of  this  unamiable  trait,  are   preserved,  which 
would  amuse  us,  were  they  associated  with  less  noble  endow- 
ments or    a  more   uninteresting     character.     As  it  is, 
however,  not  a  few  of  them  challenge  credulity,  from  their 
utter  want  of  harmony  with  certain  dispositions  which  he 
is  universally  allowed  to  have  possessed.     But  it  is  one 
of  the  greatest  and  most  common  errors   in  judging  of 
character,  to  take   an   isolated  and  partial,  instead  of  a 
broad  and   comprehensive  view  of  the  various   qualities 
which  go  to  form  the  man,  and  the  peculiar  circumstances 
that  have  influenced  their  development.     Upon  a  candid 
retrospect  of  Goldsmith's  life,  it   appears  to   us  that  the 
display  of  vanity,  which  in  the  view  of  many  are  so  de- 
meaning, may    be    easily  and  satisfactorily    explained. 


204  GOLDSMITH. 

Few  men  possess  talent  of  any  kind  uncons  ciously.  It 
seems  designed  by  the  Creator,  that  the  very  sense  of 
capacity  should  urge  genius  to  fulfil  its  mission,  and 
support  its  early  and  lonely  efforts  by  the  earnest  conviction 
of  ultimate  success.  To  beings  thus  endowed,  the  ne- 
glect and  contumely  of  the  world — the  want  of  sympathy 
—  the  feeling  of  misappreciation,  is  often  a  keen  sorrow 
felt  precisely  in  proportion  to  the  susceptibility  of  the 
individual,  and  expressed  according  as  he  is  ingenuous 
and  frank,  [u  the  case  of  Goldsmith,  his  long  and  sol- 
itary struggle  with  poverty — his  years  of  obscure  toil — 
his  ill-success  in  every  scheme  for  support,  coupled  as 
they  were  with  an  intuitive  and  deep  consciousness  of 
mental  power  and  poetic  gifts,  were  calculated  to  render 
him  painfully  alive  to  the  superior  consideration  bestowed 
upon  less  deserving  but  more  presumptuous  men,  and  the 
unmerited  and  unjust  disregard  to  his  own  claims.  Weak 
it  undoubtedly  was,  for  him  to  give  vent  so  childishly  to> 
such  feelings,  but  this  sprung  from  the  spontaneous  honesty 
of  his  nature.  He  felt  as  thousands  have  felt  under 
similar  circumstances,  but,  unlike  the  most  of  men,  "he 
knew  not  the  art  of  concealment."  Indeed,  this  free- 
spoken  and  candid  disposition  was  inimical  to  his  success 
in  more  than  one  respect.  He  was  ever  a  careless  talker, 
unabled  to  play  the  great  man,  and  instinctively  preferring 
the  spontaneous  to  the  formal,  and  "thinking  aloud"  to 
studied  and  circumspect  speech.  The  "  exquisite  sensi- 
bility to  contempt,"  too,  which  he  confesses  belonged  to 
him,  frequently  induced  an  appearance  of  conceit,  when 
no  undue  share  existed.     The  truth  is,  the  legitimate  pride 


GOLDSMITH.  205 

of  talent,  for  want  of  free  and  natural  scope,  often  exhibit- 
ed itself  in  Goldsmith  greatly  to  his  disadvantage.  The 
fault  was  rather  in  his  destiny  than  himself.  He  ran 
away  from  college  with  the  design  of  embarking  for 
America,  because  he  was  reproved  by  an  unfeeling  tutor 
before  a  convivial  party  of  his  friends  ;  and  descended  to 
a  personal  rencontre  with  a  printer,  who  impudently  de- 
livered Dodsley's  refusal  that  he  should  undertake  an 
improved  edition  of  Pope.  He  concealed  his  name  when 
necessity  obliged  him  to  apply  for  the  office  of  usher; 
and  received  visits  and  letters  at  a  fashionable  coffee- 
house, rather  than  expose  the  poorness  of  his  lodgings. 
He  joined  the  crowd  to  hear  his  own  ballads  sung  when 
a  student ;  and  openly  expressed  his  wonder  at  the  stu 
pidity  of  people,  in  preferring  the  tricks  of  a  mountebank 
to  the  society  of  a  man  like  himself.  While  we  smile  at, 
twe  cannot  wholly  deride  such  foibles,  and  are  constrained 
o  say  of  Goldsmith  as  he  said  of  the  Village  Pastor — 

"And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side." 

It  is  not  easy  to  say,  whether  the  improvidence  of  our 
poet  arose  more  from  that  recklessness  of  the  future,  cha- 
racteristic of  the  Irish  temperament,  or  the  singular  confi- 
dence in  destiny  which  is  so  common  a  trait  in  men  of 
ideal  tendencies.  It  would  naturally  be  supposed,  that 
the  stern  lesson  of  severe  experience  would  have  eventu- 
ally corrected  this  want  of  foresight.  It  was  but  the 
thoughtlessness  of  youth  which  lured  him  to  forget  amid 
the  convivialities  of  a  party,  the  vessel  on  board  which  he 
had  taken  passage  and  embarked  his  effects,  on  his   firs 

81 


206  GOLDSMITH. 

experiment  in   travelling  ;  but  later  in  life,  we  find  him 
wandering  out  on  the  first  evening  of  his  arrival  in  Edin- 
burgh, without  noting  the  street  or  number  of  his  lodgings  ; 
inviting  a  party  of  strangers  in  a  public  garden  to  take  tea 
with  him,  without  a  sixpence  in  his  pocket ;  and  obstinate- 
ly persisting,  during  his  last  illness,  in   taking  a  favorite 
medicine,  notwithstanding  it  aggravated  his  disease.     A 
life  of  greater  vicissitude  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  in 
the  annals  of  literature.       Butler  and   Otaway  were,   in- 
deed,   victims  of    indigence,  and    often   perhaps,   found 
themselves,  like  our  bard,  "  in  a  garret  writing  for  bread, 
and  expecting  every  moment  to  be   dunned  for  a  milk- 
score,"  but  the  biography  of  Goldsmith  displays  a  greater 
variety  of  shifts  resorted  to  for  subsistence.     He  was  suc- 
cessively an  itinerant  musician,  a  half- starved  usher,  a  che- 
mist's  apprentice,  private  tutor,    law-student,  practising 
physician,  eager  disputant,   hack-writer,  and  even,  for  a 
week  or  two,  one  of  a  company  of  strolling  players.'    In 
the  history  of  George  Primrose,  he  is    supposed  to  have 
described  much  of  his  personal  experience  prior  to  the  pe- 
riod when  he  became  a  professed  litterateur.     We  can- 
not but  admire    the  independent   spirit  he  maintained 
through  all  these  struggles  with  adverse  fortune.     Not- 
withstanding  his  poverty,  the  attempt  to  chain  his  talents 
to  the  service  of  a  political  faction  by  mercenary  motives 
was  indignantly  spurned,  and  when  his  good  genius  prov- 
ed triumphant,  he  preferred  to  incribe  its  first  acknow- 
ledged offspring  to  his   brother,   than,   according  to  the 
seivile  habits  of  the  day,  dedicate   it  to  any  aristocratic 
patron,  *' that  thrift  might  follow  fawning."     With  all  his 


i 


GOLDSMITH.  207 

incapacity  for  assuming"  dignity,  Goldsmith  never  seems 
to  have  forgotten  the  self-respect  becoming  one  of  nature's 
nobility. 

The  high  degree  of  excellence  attained  by  Goldsmith 
in  such  various  and  distinct  species  .of  literary  effort,  is 
worthy  of  remark.     As   an  essayist,  he  has   contributed 
some  of  the  mostpureand  graceful  specimens  of  English 
prose  discoverable  in  the  whole  range  of  literature.     His 
best  comedy  continues  to   maintain  much  of  its  original 
popularity,  notwithstanding  the  revolutions  which  public 
taste  has    undergone  since   it  was  first  produced  ;    and 
"  The  Hermit"  is  still  an  acknowledged  model  in  ballad- 
writing.     If  from   his   more  finished  works,  we  turn  to 
those  which  were  thrown  off"  under  the  pressing  exigen- 
cies of  his  life,  it  is  astonishing  what  a  contrast  of  sub- 
jects employed  his  pen.     During  his  college  days,  he  was 
constantly  writing  ballads   on   popular  events,  which  he 
disposed  of  at  five  shillings  each,  and  subsequently,  after 
his  literary  career  had  fairly  commenced,  we  find  him  se- 
dulously occupied  in  preparing  prefaces,  historical  compi- 
lations, translations,  and  reviews  for  the  booksellers;  one 
day   throwing  off*  a  pamphlet  on    the   Cock-Lane    ghost, 
and  the   next   inditing    Biographical   Sketches   of  Beau 
Nash  ;  atone  moment,   busy  upon  a  festive  song,  and  at 
another  deep  in  composing  the  words  for  an  Oratorio.    It 
is  curious,  with  the  intense  sentiment  and  finished  pic- 
tures of  fashionable  life   with  which  the  fictions  of  our 
day  abound,  fresh  in  the  memory,  to  open  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield.     We  seem  to  be  reading  the  memoirs  of  an 
earlier  era,  instead  of  a  diff*erent  sphere  of  life.     There 


208  GOLDSMITH. 

are  no  wild  and  improbable  incidenls,  no  startling  views, 
and  with  the  exception  of  Burchell's  incognito,  no  at- 
tempt to  excite  interest  through  the  attraction  of  mystery. 
And  yet,  few  novels  have  enjoyed  such  extensive  and 
permanent  favor.  It  is  yet  the  standard  work  for  intro- 
ducing students  on  the  continent  to  a  knowledge  of  our 
language,  and  although  popular  taste  at  present  demands 
quite  a  different  style  of  entertainment,  yet  Goldsmith's 
novel  is  often  reverted  to  with  delight,  from  the  vivid  con- 
trast it  presents  to  the  reigning  school ;  while  the  attrac- 
tive picture  it  affords  of  rural  life  and  humble  virtue,  will 
ever  render  it  intrinsically  dear  and  valuable. 

But  the  "  Deserted  Village"  is,  of  all  Goldsmith's  pro- 
ductions,  unquestionably  the  favorite.  It  carries  back 
the  mind  to  the  early  season  of  life,  and  re-asserts  the 
power  of  unsophisticated  tastes.  Hence,  while  other  poems 
grow  stale,  this  preserves  its  charm.  Dear  to  the  heart 
and  sacred  to  the  imagination,  are  those  sweet  delinea- 
tions of  uuperverted  existence.  There  is  true  pathos  in 
that  tender  lament  over  the  superseded  sports  and  ruined 
haunts  of  rustic  enjoyment,  wkich  never  fails  to  find  a  re- 
sponse in  every  feeling  breast.  It  is  an  elaborate  and  touch- 
ing epitaph,  written  in  the  cemetery  of  the  world,  over  what 
is  dear  to  all  humanity.  There  is  a  truth  in  the  eloquent 
defence  of  agricultural  pursuits  and  natural  pastimes,  that 
steals  like  a  well-remembered  strain  over  the  heart  im- 
mersed in  the  toil  and  crowds  of  cities.  There  is  an  un- 
born beauty  in  the  similes  of  the  bird  and  her  "  unfledged 
offspring,"  the  hare  that "  pants  to  the  place  from  whence 
at  first  he  flew,"  and  the ''  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form," 


GOLDSMITH.  209 

which,  despite  their  familiarity,  retain  their  power  to  de- 
light. And  no  clear  and  susceptible  mind  can  ever  lose 
its  interest  in  the  unforced,  unexaggerated  and  heart-stir- 
ring numbers,  which  animate  with  pleasure  the  pulses  of 
youth,  gratify  the  mature  taste  of  manhood,  and  fall  with  a 
soothing  sweetness  upon  the  ear  of  age.  We  are  not 
surprised  at  the  exclamation  of  a  young  lady  who  had  been 
accustomed  to  say,  that  our  poet  was  the  homliest  of  men, 
after  reading  the  ''Deserted  Village" — "I  shall  never 
more  think  Dr.  Goldsmith  ugly !"  This  poem  passed 
through  five  editions  in  as  many  months,  and  from  its  do- 
mestic character  became  immediately  popular  throughout 
England.  Its  melodious  versification  is  doubtless,  in  a 
measure,  to  be  ascribed  to  its  author's  musical  taste,  and 
the  fascinating  ease  of  its  flow  is  the  result  of  long  study 
and  careful  revision.  Nothing  is  more  deceitful  than  the 
apparent  facility  observable  in  poetry.  No  poet  exhibits 
more  of  this  characteristic  than  Ariosto,  and  yet  his  man- 
uscripts are  filled  with  erasures  and  repetitions.  Few 
things  appear  more  negligently  graceful  than  the  well-ar- 
ranged drapery  of  a  statue,  yet  how  many  experiments 
must  the  artist  try  before  the  desired  effect  is  produced. 
So  thoroughly  did  the  author  revise  the '^  Deserted  Vil- 
lage," that  not  a  'single  original  line  remained.  The 
clearness  and  warmth  of  his  style  is,  to  my  mind,  as  indi- 
cative of  Goldsmith's  truth,  as  the  candor  of  his  charac- 
ter  or  the  sincerity  of  his  sentiments.  It  has  been  said 
of  Pitt's  elocution,  that  it  had  the  effect  of  impressing  one 
with  the  idea  that  the  man  was  greater  than  the  orator. 
A  similar  influence  it  seems  to  me  is  produced  by  the 

18* 


210  GOLDSMITH. 

harmonious  versification   and  elegant  diction   of  Gold- 
smith. 

It  is  not,  indeed,  by  an  analysis,  however  critical,  of 
the  intellectual  distinctions  of  any  author,  that  we  can 
arrive  at  a  complete  view  of  his  genius.  It  is  to  the  feel- 
ings that  we  must  look  for  that  earnestness  which  gives 
vigor  to  mental  efforts,  and  imparts  to  them  their  peculiar 
tone  and  coloring.  And  it  will  generally  be  found  that 
what  is  really  and  permanently  attractive  in  the  works  of 
genius,  independent  of  mere  diction,  is  to  be  traced  ra- 
ther to  the  heart  than  the  head.  We  may  admire  the  ori- 
ginal conception,  the  lofty  imagery  or  winning  style  of  a 
popular  author,  but  what  touches  us  most  deeply  is  the  sen- 
timent of  which  these  are  the  vehicles.  The  fertile  in- 
vention  of  Petrarch,  in  displaying  under  such  a  variety  of 
disguises  the  same  favorite  subject,  is  not  so  moving  as 
the  unalterable  devotion  which  inspires  his  fancy  and 
quickens  his  muse.  The  popularity  of  Mrs.  Hemans  is 
more  owing  to  the  delicate  and  deep  enthusiasm  than  to 
the  elegance  of  her  poetry,  and  Charles  Lamb  is  not  less 
attractive  for  his  kindly  affections  than  for  his  quaint 
humor.  Not  a  little  of  the  peculiar  charm  of  Goldsmith, 
is  attributable  to  the  excellence  of  his  heart.  Mere 
talent  would  scarcely  have  sufficed  to  interpret  and  display 
so  enchantingly  the  humble  characters  and  scenes  to 
which  his  most  brilliant  efforts  were  devoted.  It  was  his 
sincere  and  ready  sympathy  with  man,  his  sensibility  to 
suffering  in  every  form,  his  strong  social  sentiment  and 
his  amiable  interest  in  all  around,  which  brightened  to  his 
mind's  eye,  what  to  the  less  susceptible  is  unheeded  and 


GOLDSMITH.  211 

obscure.  Naturally  endowed  with  free  and  keen  sensi- 
bilities, his  own  experience  of  privation  prevented  them 
from  indurating  through  age  or  prosperity.  He  cherish- 
ed throughout  his  life  an  earnest  faith  in  the  better  feel- 
ings of  our  nature.  He  realized  the  universal  beauty 
and  power  of  Love  ;  and  neither  the  solitary  pursuits  of 
literature,  the  elation  of  success,  nor  the  blandishments  of 
pleasure  or  society,  ever  banished  from  his  bosom  the 
generous  and  kindly  sentiments  which  adorned  his  char- 
acter.  He  was  not  the  mere  creature  of  attainment,  the 
reserved  scholar  or  abstracted  dreamer.  Pride  of  intel- 
lect usurped  not  his  heart.  Pedantry  congealed  not  the 
fountains  of  feeling.  He  rejoiced  in  the  exercise  of 
all  those  tender  and  noble  sentiments  which  are  so  much 
more  honorable  to  man  than  the  highest  triumphs  of 
mind.  And  it  is  these  which  make  us  love  the  man  not 
less  than  admire  the  author.  Goldsmith's  early  sympathy 
with  the  sufferings  of  the  peasantry,  is  eloquently  express- 
ed in  both  his  poems  and  frequently  in  his  prose  writings. 
How  expressive  that  lament  for  the  destruction  of  the 
^  Ale-House  ' — that  it  would 

'  No  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart.' 

There  is  more  true  benevolence  in  the  feeling  which 
prompted  such  a  thought,  than  in  all  the  cold  and  calcu- 
lating philosophy  with  which  so  many  expect  to  elevate 
the  lower  classes  in  these  days  of  ultra-reform.  When 
shall  we  learn  that  we  must  sympathize  with  those  we 
would  improve  ?     At  "college,  we  are  told,  one  bitter  night 


212  GOLDSMITH. 

Goldsmith  encountered  a  poor  woman  and  her  infants 
shivering  at  the  gate,  and  having  no  money  to  give  them, 
bringing  out  all  his  bed  clothes  to  keep  himself  from  freez- 
ing, cut  open  his  bed  and  slept  within  it.  When  hard  at 
work  earning  a  scanty  pittance  in  his  garret,  he  spent  every 
spare  penny  in  cakes  for  the  children  of  his  poorer  neigh- 
bors, and  when  he  could  do  nothing  else,  taught  them 
dancing, ,  by  way  of  cheering  their  poverty.  Notwith- 
standing his  avowed  antipathy  to  Baretti,  he  visited  and 
relieved  him  in  prison  ;  and  when  returning  ^home  with 
the  £100  received  from  his  book-seller  for  the  'Desert- 
ed Village,'  upon  being  told  by  an  acquaintance  he  fell 
in  with,  that  it  was  a  great  price  for  so  little  a  thing,  re- 
plied, *  perhaps  it  is  more  than  he  can  afford,'  and  re- 
turning offered  to  refund  a  part.  To  his  poor  countrymen 
he  was  a  constant  benefactor,  and  while  he  had  a  shilling 
was  ready  to  share  it  with  them,  so  that  they  familiarly 
styled  him  '  our  doctor.'  In  Leyden,  when  on  the  point 
of  commencing  his  tour,  he  stripped  himself  of  all  his 
funds  to  send  a  collection  of  flower-roots  to  an  uncle  who 
was  devoted  to  botany  ;  and  on  the  first  occasion  that  pa- 
tronage was  offered  him,  declined  aid  for  himself,  to  be- 
speak a  vacant  living  for  his  brother.  In  truth,  his  life 
abounds  in  anecdotes  of  a  like  nature.  We  read  one 
day  of  his  pawning  his  watch  for  Pilkington,  another  of 
his  bringing  home  a  poor  foreigner  from  Temple  gardens 
to  be  his  amanuensis,  and  ■  again  of  his  leaving  the  card- 
table  to  relieve  a  poor  woman,  whose  tones  as  she  chant- 
ed some  ditty  in  passing,  came  to  him  above  the  hum  of 
gaiety  and  indicated  to  his  ear  distress..     Though  the  fre- 


GOLDSMITH.  213 

quent  and  underserved  subject  of  literary  abuse,  he  was 
never  known  to  write  severely  against  any  one.  His 
talents  were  sacredly  devoted  to  the  cause  of  virtue  and 
humanity.  No  malignant  satire  ever  came  from  his 
pen.  He  loved  to  dwell  upon  the  beautiful  vindications  in 
nature  of  the  paternity  of  God,  and  expatiate  upon  the 
noblest  and  most  universal  attributes  of  man.  '  If  I 
were  to  love  you  by  rule,'  he  writes  to  his  brother,  *  I 
dare  say  I  never  could  do  it  sincerely.'  There  was  in  his 
nature,  an  instinctive  aversion  to  the  frigid,  ceremonial  and 
meaningless  professions  which  so  coldly  imitate  the  lan- 
guage of  feeling.  Goldsmith  saw  enough  of  the  world, 
to  disrobe  his  mind  of  that  scepticism  born  of  custom 
which  '  makes  dotards  of  us  all.'  He  did  not  wander 
among  foreign  nations,  sit  at  the  cottage  fire-side,  nor 
mix  in  the  thoroughfare  and  gay  saloon,  in  vain  Travel 
liberalized  his  views  and  demolished  the  ban  iers  of  local 
prejudice.  He  looked  around  upon  his  kind  with  the 
charitable  judgment  and  interest  born  of  an  observing 
mind  and  a  kindly  heart — ^with  an  infinite  love,  an  infi- 
nite pity.'  He  delighted  in  the  delineation  of  humble 
life,  because  he  knew  it  to  be  the  most  unperverted. 
Simple  pleasures  warmed  his  fancy  because  he  had  learn- 
ed their  preeminent  truth-  Childhood  with  its  innocent 
playfulness,  intellectual  character  with  its  tutored  wisdom, 
and  the  uncultivated  but  '  bold  peasantry,'  interested  him 
alike.  He  could  enjoy  an  hour's  friendly  chat  with  his 
fellow-lodger — the  watchmaker  in  Green  Arbor  court — 
not  less  than  a  literary  discussion  with  Dr.  Johnson.  <I 
must  own,'  he  writes,  '  I  should  prefer  the  title  of  the  an- 


214         -  GOLDSMITH. 

cient  philosopher,  viz.  ;  a  Citizen  of  the  World — to  that 
of  an  Englishman,  a  Frenchman,  an   European,  or  that 
of  any  appellation  whatever.'    And  this  title  he  has  nohly 
earned,  by   the   wide  scope   of  his   sympathies  and   the 
beautiful  pictures  of  life  and  nature  universally  recog- 
nized and  universally  loved,  which  have  spread  his  name 
over  the  world.     Pilgrims  to  the  supposed  scene  of  the 
Deserted  Village  have  long  since  carried  away  every  ves- 
tige of  the »havv -thorn  at   Lissoy,  but  the  laurels  of  Gold- 
smith will  never  be  garnered    by  the  hand  of  time,  or 
blighted  by  the  frost  of  neglect,  as  long  as  there  are  minds 
to  appreciate,  or  hearts  to  reverence  the  household  lore 
of  English  literature. 


POPE 


That  system  of  compensation  which  is  thought  by 
many  to  balance  the  apparent  inequalities  of  human  des- 
tiny, is  strikingly  illustrated  in  the  case  of  Alexander 
Pope.  Born  in  obscurity,  he  achieved  a  great  reputation, 
extremely  feeble  in  frame,  his  mind  was  singulurly  en- 
ergetic, cut  off  by  deformity  from  many  accomplishments, 
he  gave  to  his  intellectual  efforts  an  unrivalled  elegance. 
Who  would  have  imagined,  in  contemplating  the  delicate 
and  misshapen  child,  that  life,  by  any  possibility,  could 
prove  any  thing  to  him  but  a  weary  experience,  whose  mo- 
notony would  be  totally  unrelieved?  Yet  glance  at  the  ad- 
ventures of  his  poetical  career,  and  in  number  and  varie- 
ty they  will  be  found  equal  to  those  of  many  a  hale  knight 
or  wild  votary  of  fashion.  At  what  a  tender  age  he  re- 
nounced the  dictation  of  masters,  assumed  the  reins  of 
education,  and  resolutely  launched  into  the  profession  of 
a  poet !  How  soon  he  was  engaged  in  a  quarrel  with  Am- 
brose Phillips,  and  what  a  long  satirical  contest  ensued 
with  Dennis  and  Gibber !  Then   followed  his    intimacy 


216  POPE. 

with  Lady  Montague  ;  their  fierce  encounters  of  wit ; 
their  friendship,  correspondence,  and  mutual  enmity. 
These  and  similar  scenes  of  literary  animosity,  were 
brightened  by  friendly  intercourse  with  Gay,  Swift,  and 
Bolingbroke  :  and  relieved  by  long  periods  of  study  and 
composition,  visits  to  noblemen, short  journeys,  and  do- 
mestic duties.  And  thus  the  weak  and  diminutive  poet 
managed  to  rise  above  the  dull  existence  his  organization 
seemed  to  ensure,  and  to  find  abundance  of  interest  in 
the  excitement  of  critical  warfare  and  the  pursuit  of  poeti- 
cal renown.  It  is  a  wonderful  evidence  of  the  power  of 
mind,  that  this  blighted  germ  of  humanity — who  was 
braced  in  canvass  in  order  to  hold  himself  upright — put 
to  bed  and  undressed  all  his  life  like  a  child — often  unable 
to  digest  the  luxuries  he  could  not  deny  himself,  or  to 
keep  his  eyes  open  at  the  honorable  tables  to  which  his 
talents  alone  gave  him  access — should  yet  be  the  terror  of 
his  foes,  the  envy  of  his  rivals,  and  the  admiration  of  his 
friends.  He  could  not  manage  the  sword  he  so  ostenta- 
tiously displayed  in  society,  but  he  wielded  a  pen  whose 
caustic  satire  was  amply  adequate  to  minister  either  to  his 
self-defence  or  revenge.  He  was  'sent  into  this  breath- 
ing world  but  half  made  up,'  and  calls  his  existence  '  a 
long  disease ;'  but  nature  atoned  for  the  unkindness,  by 
endowing  him  with  a  judgment  marvellous  for  its  refined 
correctness.  He  could  not  enjoy  with  his  neighbors  the 
healthful  exercises  of  the  chase  ;  but  while  they  were  pur- 
suing a  poor  hare,  with  whose  death  ended  the  sport,  his 
mind  was  borne  along  in  a  race  of  rhyme  destined  to  car- 
ry his  name  with  honor  to  posterity.     He  never  laughed 


POPE.  217 

heartily  ;  but  while  weaving  his  heroics,  forgot  pain, 
weariness  and  the  world.  In  the  street,  he  was  an  object 
of  pity — at  his  desk,  a  king.  His  head  was  early  depriv- 
ed of  hair,  and  ached  severely  almost  every  day  of  his  life  ; 
but  his  eyes  were  singularly  expressive,  and  his  voice 
uncommonly  melodious.  In  youth  he  suffered  the  decre- 
pitude of  age,  but  at  the  same  time  gave  evidence  of  men- 
tal precocity  and  superior  sense.  He  was  unequal  to  a 
personal  rencontre  with  those  who  ridiculed  his  works ; 
but  he  has  bestowed  upon  them  an  immortal  vengeance  in 
the  Dunciad.  His  unfortunate  person  shut  him  out  from 
the  triumphs  of  gallantry,  but  his  talents  and  reputation 
long  secured  him  the  society  and  professed  friendship  of 
the  most  brilliant  woman  of  the  day ;  and  obtained  for 
him,  during  most  of  his  life,  the  faithful  care  and  compan- 
ionship of  Mnrtha  Blount.  He  never  knew  the  buoyan- 
cy of  spirit  which  good  health  induces,  but  was  very  fa- 
miliar with  that  keen  delight  that  springs  from  successful 
mental  enterprize.  He  could  not  command  the  consid- 
eration attached  to  noble  birth  ;  but,  on  the  strength  of  his 
intellectual  endowments,  he  was  always  privileged  to  tax 
the  patience  of  his  titled  acquaintance  for  his  own  conve- 
nience and  pleasure. 

Men  of  letters  have  been  called  a  race  of  creatures  of 
a  nature  between  the  two  sexes.  Pope  is  a  remarkable 
exemplification  of  the  idea.  There  is  a  tone  of  decided 
manliness  in  the  strong  sense  which  characterizes  his 
productions,  and  a  truly  masculine  vigor  in  the  patient 
application  with  which  he  opposed  physical  debility.    His 

disposition  on  the  other  hand  was  morbidly  vain.     He 
19 


218  POPE. 

was  weak  enough  to  indulge  an  ambition  for  distinguish- 
ed acquaintance,  and  a  most   effeminate  caprice  swayed 
his  attachments   and  enmities.     Another  prominent  trait 
increased  his  resemblance  to   the  female  sex.     I  allude  to 
a  quality  which  the  phrenologists  call   secretiveness.     In 
its  healthy  exercise  its  operation  is  invaluable.     To  its 
influence  is   ascribed  much  of  that  address  and  tact,  in 
which  women  are  so  superior  to  men.     The  latter,  in  or- 
dinary affairs,  generally  adopt  a  very  direct  course.   They 
confide  in  strength  rather   than  policy.     They  overlook 
lesser  means  in  the  contemplation  of  larger  ends.     This, 
indeed,  is  partly  owing  to  their  position.     Nature  always 
gives  additional  resources  where  the  relation  is  that  of  the 
pursued  rather  than  the  pursuer.     Hence/ the  insight  in- 
to character,  the  talent  for  observation,  the  skill   in  trac- 
ing motives  and  anticipating  results,  which  belong  to  wo. 
men.  It  is  the  abuse,  however,  of  this  trait  that  is   obvi- 
ous in  Pope.     There  seems  little  question  that  he  was  an 
artful  man.     He  made  use  of  the  most  unnecessary  stra- 
tagems to  compass  a  simple  favor.    His  cunning,  indeed, 
was  chiefly  directed  to  the  acquisition  of  fame  ;  but  no- 
thing subtracts  more  from  our  sense  of  reputation,  than 
a  conviction  that  it  is  an  exclusive  end  to  its  possessor. 
Truly    great  men  never  trouble  themselves   about  their 
fame.     They  press  bravely  on  in  the  path   of  honor  and 
leave  their  renown  to  take  care  of  itself.     It  succeeds  as 
certainly  as  any  law  of  nature.     All  elevated  spirits  have 
a  calm  confidence  in  this  truth.     Washington  felt  it  in 
the  darkest  hour  of  the  revolution,  and  Shakespeare  un- 
consciously realized  it,  when  he  concluded  his  last  play, 


POPE.  219 

and  went  quietly  down  to  finish  his  days  in  the  country. 
Pope  was  a  gifted  mortal,  but  he  was  not  of  this  calibre. 
He  thought  a  great  deal  about  his  reputation.  He  was 
not  satisfied  merely  to  labor  for  it,  and  leave  the  result. 
He  disputed  its  possession  inch  by  inch  with  the  critics, 
and  resorted  to  a  thousand  petty  tricks  to  secure  its  en- 
joyment. The  management  he  displayed  in  order  to  pub- 
lish his  letters,  is  an  instance  in  point.  No  one  can  read 
them  without  feeling  they  were  written  for  more  eyes 
than  those  of  his  correspondents.  There  is  a  labored 
smartness,  a  constant  exhibitionof  fine  sentiment,  which 
is  strained  and  unnatural.  His  repeated  deprecation  of 
motives  of  aggrandizement,  argues,  *  a  thinking  too  pre- 
cisely' on  the  very  subject ;  and  no  man,  whose  chief  am- 
bition was  -to  gain  a  few  dear  friends,  would  so  habitually 
proclaim  it.  These  tender  and  delicate  aspirations  live 
in  the  secret  places  of  the  heart.  They  are  breathed  in 
lonely  prnyers,  and  uttered  chiefly  in  quiet  sighs.  Scarcely 
do  they  obtain  natural  expression  amid  the  details  of  a 
literary  correspondence.  True  sentiment  is  modest.  It 
may  tinge  the  conversation  and  give  a  feeling  tone  to  the 
epistle,  but  it  makes  not  a  confessional  of  every  sentry- 
box,  or  gallery.  The  letters  of  Pope  leave  upon  the 
mind  an  impression  of  affectation.  Doubtless  they  con- 
tain much  that  is  sincere  in  sentiment  and  candid  in  opi- 
nion, but  the  general  effect  lacks  the  freedom  and  hearti- 
ness of  genuine  letter-writing.  Many  of  the  bard's 
foibles  should  be  ascribed  to  his  bodily  ailments,  and  the 
indulgence  which  he  always  commanded.  Nor  should 
we  forget  that  he  proved  himself  above  literary  servility — ^ 


220 


POPE. 


and  was,  in  many  instances,  a  most  faithful  friend,  and 
always  an  exemplary  son.  Pope  was  the  poet -of  wit 
and  fancy,  rather  than  of  enthusiasm  and  imagination. 
His  invention  is  often  brilliant,  but  never  grand.  He 
rarely  excites  any  sentiment  of  sublimity,  but  often  one  of 
pleasure.  There  is  little  in  his  poetry  that  seems  the  off- 
spring  of  emotion.  He  never  appears  to  have  written 
from  overpowering  impulse.  His  finest  verses  have  an 
air  of  premeditation.  We  are  not  swept  away  by  a  torrent 
of  individual  passion  as  in  Byron,  nor  melted  by  a  natu- 
ral sentiment  as  in  Burns,  nor  exalted  by  a  grandeur  of 
imagery  as  in  Milton.  We  read  Pope  with  a  regular 
pulse.  He  often  provokes  a  smile,  but  never  calls  forth  a 
tear.  His  rationality  approves  itself  to  our  understand- 
ing, his  fancifulness  excites  our  applause  ;  but  the  cita- 
del of  the  soul  is  uniuvaded.  We  perceive,  unawares  per- 
haps, that  books  have  quickened  the  bard's  conception  far 
more  than  experience.  It  may  be  fairly  doubted  whether 
Pope  possessed,  in  any  great  degree,  the  true  poetical  sen- 
sibility to  nature.  He  thought  more  of  his  own  domains 
than  becomes  a  true  son  of  the  muse,  and  had  a  riiost 
unpoetical  regard  for  money,  as  well  as  contempt  for  pov- 
erty. His  favorite  objects  of  contemplation  were  Alex- 
ander Pope  and  Twickenham.  We  cannot  wonder  that 
he  failed  as  an  editor  of  Shakspeare.  Few  objects  or 
scenes  of  the  outward  world  awoke  feelings  in  his  bosom 
«'  too  deep  for  tears."  He  never  claimed  such  fellowship 
with  the  elements  as  to  fancy  himself  '  a  portion  of  the 
tempest.*  It  is  true  he  describes  well  ;  but  where  the 
materials  of  his  pictures  are  not  borrowed,  they  resemble 


POPE.  221 

authentic  nomenclatures  more  than  genial  sketches.  He 
t3oes  not  personify  nature  with  the  ardor  of  a  votary.  He 
never  follows  with  a  lover's  perception  the  phases  of  a 
natural  phenomenon.  The  evening  wind  might  have 
cooled  his  brow  forever,  ere  he  would  have  been  prompted 
to  trace  its  course  with  the  grateful  fondness  of  Bryant. 
He  might  have  lived  upon  the  sea-coast,  and  never  revell- 
ed in  its  grandeur  as  did  the  Peer,  and  passed  a  daisy  ev- 
ery day,  nor  felt  the  meek  appeal  of  its  lowly  beauty,  as 
did  the  Ploughman.  Even  in  his  letters,  Pope  depicts 
scenery  with  a  very  cool  admiration  ;  and  never  seems 
to  associate  it  with  any  sentiment  of  moral  interest. 
Where  any  thing  of  this  appears,  it  is  borrowed.  The 
taste  of  Pope  was  evidently  artificial  to  the  last  degree. 
He  delighted  in  a  grotto  decked  out  with  looking-glass  and 
colored  stones,  as  much  as  Wordsworth  in  a  mountain- 
path,  or  Scott  in  a  border  antiquity.  The  Rape  of  the 
Lock  is  considered  his  most  characteristic  production,  and 
abounds,  with  brilliant  fancy  and  striking  invention. 
But  to  what  is  it  devoted?  The  celebration  of  a  trivial 
incident  in  fashionable  life.  Its  inspiration  is  not  of  the 
grove,  but  the  boudoir.  It  is  not  bright  with  the  radiance 
of  truth,  but  with  the  polish  of  art.  It  breathes  not  the 
fragrance  of  wild-flowers,  but  the  fumes  of  tea.  It  dis- 
plays not  the  simple  features  of  nature,  but  the  parapher- 
nalia of  the  toilet.  We  know  what  the  heroine  wears  and 
what  she  does,  but  must  conjecture  her  peculiar  senti- 
ments, and  make  out  of  the  details  of  her  dress  and  cir- 
cumstances, an  idea  of  her  character. 


19* 


222  POPE. 

On  her  white  breast,  a  sparkhng  cross  she  wore 
Which  Jews  might  kiss  and  infidels  adore. 

Faultless  lines  indeed,  and  they  ring  most  harmonious, 
ly ;  but  the  poet  of  feeling  would  have  thrilled  us  with 
his  description  of  Belinda's  charms,  and  the  poet  of  ima- 
gination would  have  carried  us  beneath  both  the  cross  and 
the  bosom  it  adorned,  to  the  young  heart  of  the  maiden, 
and  made  us  *  leap  on  its  pants  triumphant-'  Yet  this 
poem  is  an  extraordinary  proof  of  Pope's  fancy.  He  has 
invented  a  long  story  out  of  a  single  and  not  very  inter- 
esting fact;  and  he  has  told  this  tale  in  language  the  most 
choice,  and  rhymes  the  most  correct.  The  poem  is  like 
the  fruits  and  flowers  of  precious  stones  set  in  the  exqui- 
site  pietra  dura  tables  of  Italy, — clear,  fanciful,  rarely 
combined,  but  unwarmed  with  any  glow  of  nature  ;  and 
better  calculated  to  awaken  admiration  than  excite  sym- 
pathy. 

It  is  usual  to  speak  of  Pope  as  a  poet  of  the  past — 
one  whose  peculiarities  have  given  place  to  a  new  order 
of  things.  But  we  have  ever  representatives  of  his  school, 
both  in  literature  and  life.  Men  who  have  cultivated  their 
manners  to  an  elegant  degree  of  plausibility,  orators  who 
have  become  masters  of  an  engaging  elocution,  the 
grace  of  svhich  wins  us  from  criticism  and  reflection, 
poets  who  have  perfectly  learned  how  to  versify,  and  have 
more  sense  than  sensibility,  more  wit  than  enthusiasm, 
more  fancy  than  imaginative  power; — such  are  legitimate 
disciples  of  Pope.  They  are  useful,  attractive,  often  de- 
lightful beings,  and  effect  much  in  their  way  ;  but  humani- 
ty can  be  'touched  to  finer  issues  '  than  these  convention. 


POPE.  223 

al  though  brilliant  accomplishments.  The  truthful  as. 
pirant,  the  mind  elevated  by  great  views  and  aims,  the 
spontaneous  and  overflowing  soul — such  spirits  as  Milton, 
Burns,  Coleridge,  and  Lamb,  awaken  a  profounder  regard. 
The  Essay  on  Man  contains  many  truisms,  a  long  array 
of  common-place  facts,  and  a  few  interesting  truths.  The 
theory  it  unfolds,  whether  the  poet's  or  borrowed,  affords 
little  consolation  to  an  ardent  and  sensitive  mind.  Pope 
cherished  no  very  tender  or  comprehensive  views  of  his 
race.  His  observation  enabled  him  only  to  <  catch  the 
manners  living  as  they  rise ;'  and  accordingly  many  of 
his  couplets  have  passed  into  proverbs.     He  inquires 

'  of  God  above,  or  man  below, 
What  can  we  reason,  but  from  what  we  know  V 

A  curious  query  for  a  poet  whose  distinction  it  is  to  en- 
joy the  insight  of  a  generous  imagination,  and  whose 
keen  sympathies  take  him  constantly  from  the  narrow 
limits  of  the  actual,  soften  the  angles  of  mere  logical  per- 
ception, and  '  round  them  with  a  sleep  ' — the  sweet  anci 
dreamy  repose  of  poetical  reverie.     Pope  sings  not  of 

Hopes  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 

An  undistinguishable  throng. 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 

Subdued  and  cherished  long. 

The  Epistle  to  Abelard  breathes,  indeed,  the  tremulous 
faith  of  love,  and  paints,  not  uneffectively,  the  struggle  of 
that  passion  in  a  vestal's  heart,  but  the  bard  himself  re- 
fers us  to  the  original  letter  for  the  sentiment  of  the 
poem.     Even  the  pious  invocation  of  *  The  Dying  Chris- 


224  POPE. 

tian  to  his  Soul,'  was  written  with  a  view  to  other  effu- 
sions of  a  similar  nature.  The  Translations  and  Imita- 
tions of  Pope,  greatly  outweigh  his  original  pieces — a 
sufficient  proof  that  poetry  was  to  him  more  of  an  art  than 
an  impulse.  The  Iliad,  however  little  it  may  credit  his 
scholarship  and  fidelity  to  the  original,  is  truly  an  extraor- 
dinary evidence  of  his  facility  in  versifying,  and  of  his 
patient  industry.  Pope's  ideal  lay  almost  wholly  in  lan- 
guage.    He  thought  that 

'  True  expression  like  the  unchanging  sun, 
Clears  and  improves  wliate'er  it  shines  upon, 
It  gilds  all  objects,  but  it  alters  none,' 

To  him  we  are  mainly  indebted  for  a  new  revelation  of 
the  capabilities  of  English  heroic  verse.  He  gave  the 
most  striking  examples  of  his  favorite  theory,  that  ^  sound 
should  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense.'  He  carried  out  the 
improvement  in  diction  which  Dryden  commenced  ;  and 
while  Addison  was  producing  beautiful  specimens  of  re- 
formed prose,  Pope  gave  a  polish  and  point  to  verse  be- 
fore unknown.  When  the  vast  number  of  his  couplets 
are  considered,  their  fastidious  correctness  is  truly  as- 
tonishing. How  many  examples  occur  to  the  memory 
of  his  correct  and  musical  rhymes,  ringing  like  the  clear 
chimes  of  a  favorite  bell  through  a  frosty  atmosphere  ! 
How  often  do  we  forget  the  poverty  of  the  thought — the 
familiarity  of  the  image — the  triteness  of  the  truths  they 
convey,  in  the  fascinating  precision  of  the  verse  !  It  be- 
comes, indeed,  wearisome  at  length  from  sameness  ;  and 
to  be  truly  enjoyed  must  be  only  resorted  to  occasionally. 


POPE.  225 

The  poetical  diction  of  Pope  resembles  mosaic-work. 
His  words,  like  the  materials  of  that  art,  are  fitted  toge- 
ther with  a  marvellous  nicety.  The  pictures  formed  are 
vivid,  exact,  and  skilful.  The  consummate  tact  thus  dis- 
played charms  the  fancy,  and  suggests  a  degree  of  patient 
and  tasteful  labor  which  excites  admiration.  The  best 
mosaic  paintings  have  a  fresh  vivacity  of  hue,  and  a  dis. 
tinctness  of  outline,  which  gratifies  the  eye  ;  but  we  yield 
a  higher  tribute  to  the  less  formal  and  more  spiritual  pro- 
ducts of  the  pencil.  And  such  is  the  distinction  between 
Pope  and  more  imaginative  poets.  The  bright  enamel 
of  his  rhymes,  is  like  a  frozen  lake  over  wnich  we  glide, 
as  a  skaiter  before  the  wind,  surrounded  by  a  glittering 
landscape  of  snow.  There  is  a  pleasing  exhilaration  in 
our  course,  but  little  glow  of  heart  or  exultation  of  soul. 
The  poetry  of  a  deeper  and  less  artificial  school  is  like 
that  lake  on  a  summer  evening,  upon  whose  tide  we^float 
in  a  pleasure-boat,  looking  upon  the  flowering  banks,  the 
warm  sunset,  and  the  coming  forth  of  the  stars.  To  ap- 
preciate justly  the  perfection  to  which  Pope  carried  the 
heroic  verse,  it  is  only  necessary  to  consider  how  few 
subsequent  rhymers  have  equalled  him.  He  created  a 
standard  in  this  department  which  is  not  likely  soon  to 
be  superseded.  Other  and  less  studied  metres  have  since 
come  into  vogue,  but  this  still  occupies  and  must  retain 
an  important  place.  It  is  doubtless  the  best  for  an  occa- 
sional poem  intended  for  oral  delivery.  Few  can  manage 
the  Spenserian  stanza  with  effect,  and  blank  verse  often 
wearies  an  audience.  There  is  a  directness  in  the  he- 
roic metre  admirably  adapted  for  immediate  impression. 


226  POPE. 

The  thought  is  converged  to  bright  sallies  within  its  brief 
limits,  and  the  quickly  succeeding  rhymes  sweeten  the 
sentiment  to  the  ear.  Finely  chosen  words  are  very  ef- 
fective in  the  heroic  measure,  and  images  have  a  striking 
relievo.  For  bold  appeal,  and  keen  satire,  this  medium 
is  unsurpassed  ;  and  it  is  equally  susceptible  of  touching 
melody.  Witness  Byron's  description  of  the  dead  Me- 
dora,  and  Campbell's  protest  against  scepticism.  Rogers 
and  our  own  Sprague  have  won  their  fairest  laurels  in  he- 
roic verse.  With  this  school  of  poetry,  Pope  is  wholly 
identified.  He  most  signally  exhibited  its  resources,  and 
to  him  is  justly  ascribable  the  honor  of  having  made  it 
the  occasion  of  refining  the  English  language.  He  illus- 
trates  the  power  of  correctness — the  effect  of  precision. 
His  example  has  done  much  to  put  to  shame  careless 
habits  of  expression.  He  was  a  metrical  essayist  of  ex- 
cellent sense,  rare  Taney,  and  bright  wit.  He  is  the 
apostle  of  legitimate  rhyme,  and  one  of  the  true  masters 
of  the  art  of  verse. 


C  O  W  P  E  R. 


In  the  gallery  of  the  English  poets,  we  linger  with 
peculiar  emotion  before  the  portrait  of  Cowper.  We 
think  of  him  as  a  youth,  '  gigling  and  making  giggle'  at 
his  uncle's  house  in  London,  and  indulging  an  attachment 
destined  to  be  sadly  disappointed  ;  made  wretched  by  the 
idea  of  a  peculiar  destiny  ;  transferred  from  a  circle  of 
literary  roysterers  to  the  gloomy  precincts  of  an  Insane 
Asylum ;  partially  restored,  yet  shrinking  from  the  re^ 
sponsibilities  incident  to  his  age  ;  restless,  undecided, 
desponding  even  to  suicidal  wretchedness,  and  finally 
abandoning  a  world  for  the  excitement  and  struggles  of 
which  he  was  wholly  unfit.  We  follow  him  into  the 
bosom  of  a  devoted  family;  witness  with  admiration  the 
facility  he  exhibits  in  deriving  amusements  from  trifling 
employments — gathering  every  way-side  flower  even  in 
the  valley  of  despair,  finding  no  comfort  but  in  *  self- 
deception,'  and  finding  this  in  '  self-discipline.'  We  be- 
hold his  singular  re-appearance  in  the  world  in  the  ca- 
pacity of  an  author, — genius  reviving  the  ties  that  misfor- 
tune had  broken.     We  trace  with  delight  his  intellectual 


228  cowpEB. 

career  in  his  charming  correspondence  with  Hayley,  Hill, 
and  his  cousin,  the  vividness  of  his  affections  in  his 
poem  to  his  mother's  picture,  the  play  of  his  fancy  in 
John  Gilpin,  his  reflective  ingenuity  in  the  Task.  We 
recall  the  closing  scene — the  failing  faculties  of  his  faithful 
companion,*  his  removal  from  endeared  scenes,  his  sad 
walks  by  the  sea-shore,  his  patient,  but  profound  melan- 
choly and  peaceful  death — with  the  solemn  relief  that 
ensues  from  the  termination  of  a  tragedy.  And  when 
we  are  told  that  an  expression  of  '^holy  surprise"  settled 
on  the  face  of  the  departed,  we  are  tempted  to  exclaim 
with  honest  Kent — 

O,  let  him  pass  !  he  hates  him 

That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  rude  world, 

Stretch  him  out  longer. 

At  an  age  when  most  of  his  countrymen  are  confirmed 
in  prosaic  habits,  William  Cowper  sat  down  to  versify. 
No  darling  theory  of  the  art,  no  restless  thirst  for  fame, 
no  bardic  frenzy  prompted  his  devotion.  He  sought  in 
poetic  labor  oblivion  of  consciousness.  He  strove  to 
make  a  Lethe  of  the  waters  of  Helicon.  The  gift  of  a 
beautiful  mind  was  maried  by  an  unhappy  temperament  ; 
the  chords  of  a  tender  heart  proved  too  delicate  for  the 
winds  of  life  ;  and  the  unfortunate  youth  became  an  in- 
tellectual  hypochondriac.     In  early  manhood,  when   the 

*  Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  uttered  in  a  dream, 
Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  their  theme, 
My  Mary. 


cowpER.  229 

first  cloud  of  insanity  had  dispersed,  he  took,  as  it  were, 
monastic  vows — and  turned  aside  from  the  busy  metropolis 
where  his  career  began,  to  seek  the  solace  of  rural  retire- 
ment. There,  the  tasteful  care  of  a  conservatory,  the 
exercise  of  mechanical  ingenuity,  repose,  seclusion  and 
kindness,  gradually  restored  his  spirit  to  calmness;  and 
then  the  intellect  demanded  exercise,  and  this  it  found  in 
the  service  of  the  muse.  Few  of  her  votaries  afford  a 
more  touching  instance  of  suffering  than  the  bard  of 
Olney.  In  the  records  of  mental  disease,  his  case  has  a. 
melancholy  prominence — not  that  it  is  wholly  isolated, 
but  because  the  patient  tells  his  own  story,  and  hallows 
the  memory  of  his  griefs  by  uniform  gentleness  of  soul 
and  engaging  graces  of  mind.  To  account  for  the  misery 
of  Cowper,  is  not  so  important  as  to  receive  and  act  upon 
the  lesson  it  conveys.  His  history  is  an  ever-eloquent 
appeal  in  behalf  of  those,  whose  delicate  organization 
and  sensitive  temper  expose  them  to  moral  anguish. 
Whether  his  gloom  is  ascribable  to  a  state  of  the  brain  as 
physiologists  maintain,  to  the  ministry  of  spirits  as  is 
argued  by  the  Swedenborgians,  or  to  the  influence  of  a 
creed  as  sectarians  declare,  is  a  matter  of  no  comparative 
moment — since  there  is  no  doubt  the  germs  of  insanity 
existed  in  his  very  constitution.  «'I  cannot  bear  much 
thinking,"  he  says.  "  The  meshes  of  the  brain  are  com- 
posed of  such  mere  spinner's  threads  in  me,  that  when  a 
long  thought  finds  its  way  into  them,  it  buzzes  and  twangs 
and  bustles  about  at  such  a  rate  as  seems  to  threaten  the 
whole  contexture."  Recent  discoveries  have  proved  that 
there  is  more  physiological  truth  in  this  remark,  than  the 

20 


230  cowrER. 

unhappy  poet  could  ever  have  suspected.  The  ideas 
about  which  his  despair  gathered,  were  probably  acciden- 
tal. His  melancholy  naturally  was  referred  to  certain 
external  causes,  but  its  true  origin  is  to  be  sought  among 
the  mysteries  of  our  nature.  The  avenues  of  joy  were 
closed  in  his  heart.  He  tells  us,  a  sportive  thought  start- 
led him.  "It  is  as  if  a  harlequin  should  intrude  himself 
into  the  gloomy  chamber  were  a  corpse  is  deposited." 
In  reading  his  productions,  with  a  sense  of  his  mental 
condition,  what  a  mingling  of  human  dignity  and  woe  is 
present  to  the  imagination  !  A  mind  evolving  the  most 
rational  and  virtuous  conceptions,  yet  itself  the  prey  of 
absurd  delusions ;  a  heart  overflowing  with  the  truest 
sympathy  for  a  sick  hare,  yet  pained  at  the  idea  of  the 
church-honors  paid  to  Handel ;  a  soul  gratefully  recogni- 
zing  the  benignity  of  God,  in  the  fresh  verdure  of  the 
myrtle,  and  the  mutual  attachment  of  doves,  and  yet  in- 
credulous of  his  care  for  its  own  eternal  destiny  !  What 
a  striking  incongruity  between  the  thoughtful  man,  ex. 
patiating  in  graceful  numbers  upon  the  laws  of  Nature 
and  the  claims  of  Religion,  and  the  poor  mortal  deferring 
to  an  ignorant  school-master,  and  "  hunted  by  spiritual 
hounds  in  the  night-season  ;"  the  devout  poet  celebrating 
his  maker's  glory,  and  the  madman  trembling  at  the  wax- 
ing moon ;  the  affectionate  friend  patient  and  devoted, 
and  the  timid  devotee  deprecating  the  displeasure  of  a 
clergyman,  who  reproved  his  limited  and  harmless  plea- 
sures ! 

It  has  been  objected  to  Hamlet,  that  the  sportlveness  of 
the  prince  mars  the  effect  of  his  thoughtfulness.     It  is 


COWPER.  231 

natural  when  the  mind  is  haunted  and  oppressed  by  any 
painful  idea  which  it  is  necessary  to  conceal,  to  seek  re- 
lief, and  at  the  same  time  increase  the  deception,  by  a  kind 
of  playfulness.  This  is  exemplified  in  Cowper's  letters. 
"Such  thoughts."  he  says,  "as  pass  through  my  head 
when  I  am  not  writing,  make  the  subject  of  my  letters  to 
you."  One  overwhelming  thought,  however,  was  gliding 
like  a  dark,  deep  stream  beneath  the  airy  structures  he 
thus  reared  to  keep  his  mind  from  being  swept  off  by  its 
gloomy  current.  To  this  end,  he  surrendered  his  pen  to 
the  most  obvious  pleasantry  at  hand,  and  dallied  with  the 
most  casual  thoughts  of  the  moment,  as  Hamlet  talks 
about  the  "  old  true-penny  in  the  cellerage,"  when  the 
idea  of  his  father's  spirit  is  weighing  with  awful  myste- 
riousness  upon  his  heart,  and  amuses  himself  with  joking 
Old  Polonius,  when  the  thought  of  filial  revenge  is  sway- 
ing the  very  depths  of  his  soul.  Cowper  speculates  on 
baloons,  moralizes  on  politics,  chronicles  the  details  of 
his  home-experience,  even  to  the  accidents  resulting  from 
the  use  of  a  broken  table,  with  the  charming  air  of  play- 
fulness that  marks  the  correspondence  of  a  lively  girl. 
How  often  are  these  letters  the  proofs  of  rare  heroism  ! 
How  often  were  those  flowers  of  fancy  watered  by  a 
bleeding  heart !  By  what  an  effort  of  will  was  his  mind 
turned  from  its  forebodings,  from  the  dread  of  his  wretch- 
ed anniversary,  from  the  one  horrible  idea  that  darkened 
his  being,  to  the  very  trifles  of  common-life,  the  every -day 
circumstances  which  he  knew  so  well  how  to  arrav  with 
fresh  interest  and  agreeable  combination  !  Cowper's 
story  indicates  what  a  world  of  experience  is  contained  in 


232  cowPEK. 

0116  solitary  life.     It  lifts  the  veil  from  a  single  human 
bosom,  and  displays  all  the  elements  of  suffering,  adven- 
ture and  peace,  which  we  are  apt  to  think  so  dependant 
upon  outward    circumstances !      There    is    more   to   be 
learned  from  such  a  record  than  most  histories  afford. 
They  relate  things  en  masse,  and  battles,  kings  and  courts 
pass  before  us,  like  mists  along  a  mountain-range ;  but 
in  such  a  life  as  that  of  Cowper,  we  tremble  at  the  capa- 
city of  woe  involved  in  the  possession  of  sensibility,  and 
trace  with  awe  and  pity  the  mystery  of  a  "  mind  dis- 
eased."    The  anatomy  of  the  soul  is,  as  it  were,  partially 
disclosed.     Its  conflicting  elements,  its  intensity  of  re- 
flection, its  marvellous  action  fill  us  with  a  new  and  more 
tender  reverence.     Nor  are  the  darker  shades  of  this  re- 
markable mental   portrait  unrelieved.     To  the  reader  of 
his  life,  Cowper's   encounter  with  young  Unwin,  under 
the  trees  at  Huntingdon,  is  as  bright  a  gleam  of  destiny 
as  that  which  visited  his  heart  at  Southampton.     At  the 
very  outset  of  his  acquaintance  with  this  delightful  family, 
he   calls  them  "comfortable    people."     This  term  may 
seem  rather  humble  compared  with  such  epithets  as  *  bril- 
liant,' *  gifted'   and  'interesting  ;'  but  to  a  refined  mind 
it  is   full  of  significance.     Would  there  were  more  com- 
fortable people  in  the  world  !     Where  there  is  rare  talent 
in  a  companion,  there  is  seldom  repose.     Enthusiasm  is 
apt  to  make  very  uncomfortable  demands  upon  our  sym- 
pathies, and  strong-sense  is  not  infrequently  accompanied 
by  a  dogmatical  spirit.     Erudite  society  is  generally  de- 
void of  freshness,  and  poetical  spirits  have  the  reputation 
of  egotism.     However  improving  such  companions  may 


cowpER.  233 

be,  to  sensitive  persons  they  are  seldom  comfortable. 
There  is  a  silent  influence  in  the  mere  presence  of  every 
one,  which,  whether  animal  magnetism  is  true  or  not, 
makes  itself  felt,  unless  the  nerves  are  insensible ;  and 
then  there  is  a  decided  character  in  the  voice  and  manner, 
as  well  as  in  the  conversation.  In  comfortable  people, 
all  these  are  harmonized.  The  whole  impression  is 
cheering.  We  are  at  ease,  and  yet  gratified  ;  we  are 
soothed  and  happy.  With  such  companionship  was  Cow- 
per  blessed  in  the  Unwins.  No  '  stricken  deer'  that  ever 
left  the  herd  of  men,  required  such  a  solace  more.  We 
cannot  wonder  it  proved  a  balm.  The  matronly  figure 
of  Mrs.  Unwin  and  her  '  sweet,  serene  face,'  rise  before 
the  fancy  as  pictures  of  actual  memory.  We  see  her  knit- 
ting beside  the  fire  on  a  winter  day,  and  Cowper  writing 
opposite ;  hear  her  friendly  expostulation  when  he  over- 
tasked his  mind,  and  see  the  smile  with  which  she  '  re- 
stored his  fiddle,'  when  rest  made  it  safe  to  resume  the 
pen.  We  follow  them  with  a  gaze  of  affectionate  respect 
as  they  walk  at  noon  along  the  gravel-walk,  and  honor  the 
maternal  solicitude  that  sustains  her  patient  vigils  beside 
the  sick-bed  of  the  bard.  In  imagination  we  trace  her  de- 
meaner,  as  with  true  female  tact  she  contrived  to  make  the 
people  regard  her  charge  only  with  reverence.  Like  a 
star  of  peace  and  promise,  beams  the  memory  of  this  ex- 
cellent woman  upon  Cowper's  sad  history ;  and  Lady 
Hesketh  and  '  Sister  Anne'  are  the  lesser,  but  still  benig- 
nant  luminaries  of  that  troubled  sky.  Such  glimpses  of 
woman  vindicate  her  true  rights  more  than  all  the  rheto- 
ric of  Mary  Wolstonecraft.  They  prove  her  claim  to 
20* 


234'  '  cowPER. 

higher  respect  than  can  attach  to  the  trophies  of  valor  or 
genius.  They  exhibit  her  in  all  the  dignity  of  pure  affec- 
tion, in  the  discharge  of  duties  and  the  exercise  of  senti- 
timent  more  exalted  than  the  statesman  or  soldier  can  ever 
boast.  They  throw  around  Olney  more  sacred  associa- 
tions than  those  which  consecrate  Yaucluse.  Not  to  a 
selfish  passion,  not  to  ambitious  display,  not  to  pietty  tri. 
umphs  did  these  women  minister,  but  to  a  kindred  nature 
whose  self-sustaining  energies  had  been  weakened,  to  a 
rare  spirit  bereft  of  a  hope,  to  a  noble  heart  over-shadow, 
ed  by  despair.  It  was  an  office  worthy  of  angels  ;  and 
even  on  earth  was  it  thus  fulfilled. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  Byron  denied  to  Cowper  the 
title  of  poet.  To  an  impassioned  imagination,  the  tone 
of  his  writings  cannot  but  appear  subdued  even  to  abso- 
lute tameness.  There  are,  however,  in  his  poems  flights 
of  fancy,  fine  comparisons  and  beautiful  descriptive  sketch 
es,  enough  to  quicken  and  impart  singular  interest  to  the 
I  still  life'  so  congenial  to  his  muse.  He  compared  her* 
array  not  inaptly  to  a  quaker-costume.  Verse  was  delib- 
erately  adopted  by  Cowper  at  a  mature  age,  as  a  medium 
of  usefulness.  His  poetry  is  not  therefore  the  overflowing 
of  youthful  feeling,  and  his  good  judgment  probably  warn- 
ed him  to  avoid  exciting  themes,  even  had  his  inclination 
tended  in  that  direction.  He  became  a  lay-preacher  in 
numbers.  His  object  was  to  improve  men,  not  like  the 
bard  of  Avon  by  powerfully  unfolding  their  passions,  nor 
like  Pope  by  p'lre  satire  ;  but  rather  through  the  quiet 
teachings  of  a  moralist.  He  discourses  upon  hunting, 
cards,  the  abuses  of  the  clerical  profession  and  other  pre- 


cowPER.  235 

Tailing  follies,  like  a  man  who  is  convinced  of  the  vanity 
of  worldly  pleasure  and  anxious  to  dispel  its  illusions  from 
other  minds.  His  strain  is  generally  characterized  by 
good-sense,  occasionally  enlivened  by  quiet  humor,  and 
frequently  exhibits  uncommon  beauties  of  style  and  image- 
ry. It  is  almost  invariably  calm.  Moral  indignation  is 
perhaps  the  only  very  warm  sentiment  with  which  it 
glows.  It  may  be  questioned  whether  Cowper's  previous 
experience  was  the  best  adapted  to  educate  a  reformer. 
He  was  a  member  of  a  society  of  wits,  called  the  '  Non- 
sense Club  ;'  and  from  what  we  can  learn  of  his  associates, 
it  is  highly  probable  that  the  moderate  pursuit  of  pleasure 
was  a  spectacle  very  unfamiliar  to  his  youth.  Hence, 
perhaps,  the  severe  light  in  which  he  viewed  society,  and 
the  narrow  system  upon  which  he  judged  mankind. 

'Truths  that  the  theorist  could  never  reach, 
And  observation  taught  me  I  would  teach.' 

It  is  obvious  that  the  poet's  observation  was  remarkably 
nice  and  true  in  certain  departments  of  life,  but  his  early 
diffidence,  few  companions  and  retiring  habits  must  have 
rendered  his  view  of  social  characteristics,  partial  and  im- 
perfect. His  pictures  of  spiritual  pride  and  clerical  fop- 
pery are  indeed  life-like,  but  prejudice  blinded  him  to 
many  of  the  redeeming  traits  of  human  nature,  and  the 
habit  of  judging  all  men  by  the  mere  light  of  his  own  con- 
sciousness prevented  him  from  realizing  many  of  their 
real  wants,  and  best  instincts.  His  notions  on  the  sub- 
ject of  music,  the  drama,  life  in  cities,  and  some  other 
subjects,  were  one-sided  and  unphilosophical.     He  gen- 


236  cowPER. 

erally  unfolds  the  truth,  but  it  is  not  always  the  whole 
truth.  There  is,  too,  a  poetic  remedy  for  human  error, 
that  his  melancholy  temper  forbade  his  applying.  It  is  de- 
rived from  the  religion  of  hope,  faith  in  man — the  ge- 
nial  optimism  which  some  later  bards  have  delightfully 
advocated.  To  direct  men's  thoughts  to  the  redeeming 
aspects  of  life,  to  celebrate  the  sunshine  and  the  flower  as 
types  of  Eternal  goodness  and  symbols  of  human  joy,  to 
lead  forth  the  sated  reveller  and  make  him  feel  the  glory 
of  the  stars  and  the  freshness  of  the  breeze,  to  breathe  into 
the  ear  of  toil  the  melodies  of  evening,  to  charm  the  vota- 
ry of  fashion  by  endearing  portraitures  of  humble  virtue — 
these  have  been  found  moral  specifics,  superior  to  formal 
expostulation  or  direct  appeal.  Cowper  doubtless  exerted 
a  happy  influence  upon  his  contemporaries,  and  there  is 
an  order  of  minds  to  which  his  teachings  are  peculiarly 
adapted.  He  speaks  from  the  contemplative  air  of  rural 
retirement.  He  went  thither  ''  to  muse  on  the  perishing 
pleasures  of  life,"  to  prove  that 

The  only  amaranthine  flower  on  earth, 
Is  Virtue  ;  the  only  lasting  treasure,  Truth. 

In  favor  of  these  principles  he  addressed  his  countrymen, 
and  the  strain  was  worthier  than  any  that  had  long  struck 
their  ears.  Gradually  it  found  a  response,  confirmed  the 
right  intentions  of  lowly  hearts,  and  carried  conviction  to 
many  a  thoughtful  youih.  There  was  little,  however,  in 
this  improved  poetry,  of  the  '^  richest  music  of  humanity," 
or  of  the  electrifying  cheerfulness  of  true  inspiration,  and 


cowpER.  237 

hence,  much  of  it  has  lost  its  interest,  and  the  bard  of 
Olney  is  known  chiefly  by  a  few  characteristic  gems  of 
moral  meditation  and  graphic  portraiture.  Our  obliga- 
tions then  to  Cowper  as  a  teacher,  are  comparatively  limi- 
ted. He  was  conscious  of  a  good  design,  and  felt  him- 
self a  sincere  advocate. 

'But  nobler  yet,  and  nearer  to  the  skies, 
To  feel  one's  self  in  hours  serene  and  still. 
One  of  the  spirits  chosen  by  Heaven  to  turn 
The  sunny  side  of  things  to  human  eyes.' 

The  most  truly  poetic  phases  of  Cowper's  verse,  are  the 
portions  devoted  to  rural  and  domestic  subjects.  Here  he 
was  at  home  and  alive  to  every  impression.  His  dispo- 
sition was  of  that  retiring  kind  that  shrinks  from  the  world, 
and  is  free  and  at  ease  only  in  seclusion.  To  exhibit 
himself,  he  tells  us,  was  '  mortal  poison,'  and  his  favorite 
image  to  represent  his  own  condition,  was  drawn  from 
the  touching  instinct  which  leads  a  wounded  deer  to  quit 
the  herd  and  withdraw  into  lonely  shades  to  die.  He  de- 
sired no  nearer  view  of  the  world  than  he  could  gain  from 
the  *  busy  map  of  life' — a  newspaper  ;  or  through  the  '  loop, 
holes  of  retreat,  to  see  the  stir  of  the  great  Babel  and  no* 
feel  the  crowd.'  I  knew  a  lady  whose  feelings  in  this 
respect  strongly  resembled  those  of  Cowper,  who  assured 
me,  she  cften  wished  herself  provided  like  a  snail,  that  she 
might  peep  out  securely  from  her  shell,  and  withdraw  in  a 
moment  from  a  stranger's  gaze  behind  an  impenetrable 
shield.  Such  beings  find  their  chief  happiness  in  the  sa- 
cred privacy  of  home.  They  leave  every  public  shrine  to 
keep  a  constant  vigil  at  the  domestic  altar.     There  burns 


238  cowPER. 

without  ceasing,  the  fire  of  their  devotion.  They  turn- 
from  the  idols  of  fashion  to  worship  their  household  gods. 
The  fire-side,  the  accustomed  window,  the  familiar  gar- 
den bound  their  desires.  To  happy  domestic  influences 
Cowper  owed  all  the  peace  of  mind  he  enjoyed.  He  eulo- 
gized the  blessing  with  grateful  sincerity, 

0  friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man, 
Friendly  to  tliought,  to  virtue  and  to  peace, 
Domestic  life  in  rural  leisure  passed  ! 

"  Constant  occupation  without  care,"  was  his  ideal  of 
existence.  Even  winter  was  endeared  by  its  home-en- 
joyments. 

1  crown  thee  king  of  intimate  delights 
Fire-eide  enjoyments,  home-born  happiness. 

It  was  here  that  the  poet  struck  a  responsive  chord  in  the 
hearts  of  his  countrymen.  He  sung  of  the  sofa — a  me- 
morial of  English  comfort ;  of  home  the  castle  of  English 
happiness  and  independence  ; — of  the  newspaper — the 
morning  and  evening  pastime  of  Englishmen  ; — of  the 
<  hissing  urn'  and  '  the  cups  that  cheer,  but  not  inebriate' — 
the  peculiar  luxury  of  his  native  land  ; — of  the  '  parlor- 
twilight,'  the  '  winter  evening,'  the  '  noon-day  walk' — all 
subjects  consecrated  by  national  associations.  Goldsmith 
and  Thompson  are  the  poets  of  rural  life,  and  Cowper 
completes  the  charming  triumvirate.  The  latter's  love  for 
the  country  was  absolute. 

I  never  framed  a  wish,  or  formed  a  plan. 
That  flattered  me  with  hopes  of  earthly  bliss, 
But  there  I  laid  the  scene. 


cowpER.  '  239 

His  description  of  the  pursuits  of  horticulture,  winter 
landscapes,  and  rustic  pleasures,  eloquently  betray  this 
peculiar  fondness  for  the  scenery  and  habits  of  rural  life. 
Many  of  these  pictures  are  unique,  and  constitute  Cow- 
per's  best  title  to  poetic  fame.  " 


SHELLEY 


"  Was  cradled  into  poetry  by  wrong, 

And  learned  in  suffering  what  he  taught  in  song." 

It  is  now  about  eighteen  years  since  the  waters  of  the 
Mediterranean  closed  over  one  of  the  most  delicately  or- 
ganized and  richly  endowed  beings  of  our  era.  A  scion 
of  the  English  aristocracy,  the  nobility  of  his  soul  threw 
far  into  the  shade  all  conventional  distinctions  ;  while  his 
views  of  life  and  standard  of  action  were  infinitely  broad- 
er and  more  elevated  than  the  narrow  limits  of  caste. 
Highly  imaginative,  susceptible  and  brave,  even  in  boy- 
hood he  reverenced  the  honest  convictions  of  his  own 
mind  above  success  or  authority.  With  a  deep  thirst  for 
knowledge,  he  united  a  profound  interest  in  his  race. 
Highly  philosophical  in  his  taste,  truth  was  the  prize  for 
which  he  most  earnestly  contended  ;  heroical  in  his  tem- 
per, freedom  he  regarded  as  the  dearest  boon  of  existence  ; 
of  a  tender  and  ardent  heart,  love  was  the  grand  hope  and 
consolation  of  his  being,  while  beauty  formed  the  most 
genial  element  of  his  existence. 


&HEL1.EY.  241 

Of  such  a  nature,  when  viewed  in  a  broad  light,  were 
the  elements  of  Shelley's  character.  Nor  is  it  difficult 
to  reconcile  them  with  the  details  of  his  opinions  and  the 
tenor  of  his  life.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  a  state  of  society 
in  which  such  a  being  might  freely  develope,  and  felicit- 
ously  realize  piiuciples  and  endowments  so  full  of  pro- 
mise ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  only  necessary  to 
look  around  on  the  world  as  it  is,  or  back  upon  its  past 
records,  to  lose  all  surprise  that  this  fine  specimen  of  hu- 
manity was  sadly  misunderstood  and  his  immediate  in- . 
fluence  perverted.  The  happy  agency  which  as  an  inde- 
pendent  thinker  and  humane  poet  might  have  been  pro- 
phecied  of  Shelley,  presupposed  a  degree  of  considera- 
tion and  sympathy,  not  to  say  delicacy  and  reverence,  on 
the  part  of  society,  a  wisdom  in  the  process  of  education, 
a  scope  of  youthful  experience,  an  entire  integrity  of  treat, 
ment,  to  be  encountered  only  in  the  dreams  of  the 
Utopian.  To  have  elicited  in  forms  of  unadulterated 
good  the  characteristics  of  such  a  nature,  "  when  his  be- 
ing overflowed,"  the  world  should  have  been  to  him, 

*'  As  a  golden  chalice  to  bright  wine 
Which  else  had  sunk  into  the  thirsty  dust."* 

Instead  of  this,  at  the  first  sparkling  of  that  fountain,  the 
teachings  of  the  world,  and  the  lessons  of  life,  were  cal- 
culated  to  dam  up  its  free  tide  in  the  formal  embank- 
ments of  custom  and  power.  What  wonder,  then,  that 
it  overleaped  such  barriers,  and  wound  waywardly  aside 
into  solitude,  to  hear  no  sound  "save  its  own  dashings?*' 

*  Prometheus  Unbound, 
21 


242 


SHELLEY. 


The  publication  of  the  |-osthumGUs  prose*  of  Shelley, 
is  chiefly  interesting  from  the  fact  that  it  perfectly  con-*^ 
firms  our  best  impressions  of  the  man.  We  here  trace 
in  his  confidential  letters,  the  love  and  philanthropy  to 
which  his  muse  was  devoted.  All  his  literary  opinions 
evidence  the  same  sincerity.  His  refined  admiration  of 
nature,  his  habits  of  intense  study  and  moral  independence, 
have  not  been  exaggerated.  The  noble  actions  ascribed 
to  him  by  partial  friends,  are  proved  to  be  ihe  natural  re- 
sults of  his  native  feelings.  The  peculiar  sufferings  of 
body  and  mind,  of  experience  and  imagination,  to  which 
his  temperament  and  destiny  subjected  him,  have  in  no 
degree  been  overstated.  His  generosity  and  high  ideal 
of  intellectual  greatness  and  human  excellence,  are  more 
than  indicated  in  the  unstudied  outpourings  of  his  fami- 
liar correspondence. 

Love,  according  to  Shelley,  is  the  sum  and  essence  of 
goodness.  While  listening  to  the  organ  in  the  Cathedral 
of  Pisa,  he  sighed  that  charity  instead  of  faith  was  not 
regarded  as  the  substance  of  universal  religion.  Self  be 
considered  as  the  poisonous  "  burr  "  which  especially  de- 
formed modern  society ;  and  to  overthrow  this  "  dark 
idolatry,"  he  embarked  on  a  lonely  but  most  honorable 
crusade.  The  impetuosity  of  youth  doubtless  gave  to 
the  style  of  his  enterprise  an  aspect  startling  to  some  of 
his  well-meaning  fellow-creatures.  All  social  reformers 
must  expect  to  be  misinterpreted  at  d  reviled.  In  the 
case  of  Shelley,  the  great  cause   for  regret  is  that  so  few 

t  Essays,  Letters  from  Abroad,  Translations  and  Fragments.    By- 
Percy  Byifche  Shelley.     Edited  by  Mrs.  Shelley  :  London.     1840. 


SHELLEY,  243 

should  have  paid  homage  to  his  pure  and  sincere  inten- 
tions ;   that  so  many   should  have  credited  the   countless 
slanders  heaped  on  his  name ;  and  that  a  nature  so  gifted 
and  sensitive,  should  have  been  selected  as  the  object  of 
such  wilful  persecution.     The  young  poet  saw  men  re- 
posing supinely  upon  dogmas,  and  hiding  cold  hearts  be- 
hind technical  creeds,  instead  of  acting  out  the   sublime 
idea  of  human  brotherhood.     His  moral  sense  was  shock- 
ed at  the  injustice  of  society  in  heaping  contumely  upon 
an  erring  woman,  while  it  recognizes  and  honors  the  au- 
thor  of  her  disgrace.     He  saddened  at  the  spectacle  so  of- 
ten presented,  of  artificial  union  in  married  life,  the  en- 
forced constancy  of  unsympathizing  beings,  hearts  dying 
out  in  the  long  struggle  of  an  uncongenial  bond.     Above 
all,  his  benevolent  spirit  bled  for  the  slavery  of  the  mass — 
the  superstitious  enthralment  of  the  ignorant  many.     He 
looked  upon  the  long  procession  of  his  fellow-creatures 
plodding  gloomily  on  to  their  graves,  conscious  of  social 
bondage,  yet  making  no  effort  for  freedom,  groaning  un- 
der self-imposed  burdens,  yet  afraid  to  cast  them  off,  con- 
ceiving better  things,  yet  executing  nothing.     Many  have 
felt  and  still  feel  thus.     Shelley  aspired  to  embody  in  ac- 
tion, and   to   illustrate  in   life  and  literature   the   reform 
which   his  whole   nature  demanded.     He  dared  to   lead 
forth  at  a  public  ball  the  scorned  victim  of  seduction,  and 
appal  tiie  hypociitical  crowd  by  an  act  of  true  moral  cour- 
age.    As  a  boy,  he  gave  evidence  of  his  attachment  to 
liberty  by  overthrowing  a  system  of  school  tyranny ;  and 
this   sentiment,  in   after  life,  found   scope  in  his  Odes  to 
he  Revolutionists  of  Spain  and  Italy.     He  fearlessly  dis- 


244 


SHELLEY. 


cussed  the  subject  of  marriage,  and  argued  for  aboli^h• 
ing  an  institution  which  he  sincerely  believed  perverted 
the  very  sentiment  upon  which  it  is  professedly  based. 
"  If  I  have  conformed  to  the  usages  of  the  world,  on  the 
score  of  matrimony,"  says  one  of  his  letters,  "it  is  that 
disgrace  always  attaches  to  the  weaker  sex."  In  relation 
to  this  and  other  of  his  theories,  the  language  of  a  fine 
writer  in  reference  to  a  kindred  spirit  is  justly  applicable 
to  Shelley.  "  He  conceived  too  nobly  for  his  fellows — 
he  raised  the  standard  of  morality  above  the  reach  of  hu- 
manity ;  and,  by  directing  virtue  to  the  most  airy  and  ro- 
mantic heights,  made  her  paths  dangerous,  solitary,  and 
impracticable."  Shelley  entertained  a  perfect  disgust  for 
the  consideration  attached  to  wealth,  and  observed,  with 
impatient  grief,  the  shadow  property  throws  over  modest 
worth  and  uunionied  excellence.  Upon  this  sentiment, 
also,  he  habitually  acted.  The  maintenancG  of  his  opin- 
ions cost  him,  among  other  sacrifices,  a  fine  estate.  So 
constant  and  profuse  was  his  liberality  towards  impover- 
ished men  of  letters,  and  the  indigent  in  general,  that  he 
was  obliged  to  live  with  great  economy.  He  subjected 
himself  to  serious  inconvenience  while  in  Italy,  to  assist 
a  friend  in  introducing  steam-uavigation  on  the  Mediter- 
ranean. It  was  his  disposition  to  glory  in  and  support 
true  merit  wherever  he  found  it.  He  was  one  of  the  first 
to  recognize  the  dawning  genius  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  to 
whom  he  addressed  a  letter  of  encouragement  when  she 
was  a  mere  girl.  He  advocated  a  dietetic  reform,  from  a 
strong  conviction  that  abstinence  from  spirituous  liquors 
and  animal  food,  would  do  much  to   renovate  the  human. 


SHELLEY.  245 

race.  Upon  this  idea  his  own  habits  were  based.  But 
the  most  obnoxious  of  Shelley's  avowed  opinions,  was 
his  non-concurrence  in  the  prevalent  system  of  Religion. 
To  the  reflective  student  of  his  writings,  however,  the 
poet's  atheism  is  very  different  from  what  interested  cri. 
tics  have  made  it.  School  and  its  associations  were  in- 
expressibly trying  to  his  free  and  sensitive  nature ;  and 
a  series  of  puzzling  questions  of  a  metaphysical  charac- 
ter, which  he  encountered  in  the  course  of  his  recreative 
reading,  planted  the  seeds  of  skepticism  in  his  mind, 
which  enforced  religious  observances  and  unhappy  ex- 
perience  soon  fertilized.  Queeen  Mab,  the  production 
of  a  collegian  in  his  teens,  is  rather  an  attack  upon  a 
creed  than  Christianity  ;  and  was  never  published  with 
the  author's  consent.  It  should  be  considered  as  the 
crude  outbreak  of  juvenile  talent  eager  to  make  trial  of 
the  new  weapons  furnished  by  the  logic  of  Eton.  Yet  it 
was  impertinently  dragged  into  notice  to  blight  the  new 
and  rich  flowers  of  his  maturer  genius,  and  meanly  quot- 
ed against  Shelley  in  the  chancery  suit  by  which  he  was 
deprived  of  his  children.  Instead  of  smiling  at  its  absur- 
dities, or  rejecting,  with  similar  reasoning  its  arguments, 
the  force  of  authority,  the  very  last  to  alarm  such  a  spirit, 
was  alone  resorted  to.  What  wonder  if  the  ardent  boy's 
doubts  of  the  popular  system  was  increased,  his  views  of 
social  degradation  confirmed  ;  that  he  came  to  regard  cus- 
tom as  the  tyrant  of  the  universe,  and  proposed  to  abandon 
a  world  from  whose  bosom  he  had  been  basely  spurned  ? 
If  an  intense  attachment  to  truth,  and  an  habitual  spirit 
of  disinterestedness  constitute  any  part  of  religion,  Shel- 

21* 


246  SHELLEY. 

liey  was  eminently  religious.  For  the  divine  character 
portrayed  in  the  Gospels,  he  probably,  in  his  latter  years, 
had  a  truer  reverence  than  the  majority  of  Christians. 
If  we  are  to  credit  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends,  the 
Beatitudes  constituted  his  delight  and  embodied  his  prin. 
ciples  of  faith.  As  far  as  the  Deity  is  worshipped  by  a 
profound  sensibility  to  the  wonders  and  beauty  of  his 
universe,  a  tender  love  of  his  creatures  and  a  cherished 
veneration  for  the  highest  revelations  of  humanity,  the 
calumniated  poet  was  singularly  devout.  "  Fools  rush 
in  where  angels  fear  to  tread,"  is  true  of  human  conduct 
not  less  in  its  so  called  religious  than  its  oiher  aspects. 
We  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  doubt.  To  attain  to  clear 
and  unvarying  convictions,  in  regard  to  the  mysteries  of 
our  being,  is  not  the  lot  of  all.  There  are  those  who 
cannot  choose  but  wonder  at  the  unbounded  confidence 
of  theologians.  It  is  comparatively  easy  (o  be  a  church- 
goer, to  conform  to  religious  observances,  to  acquiesce  in 
prevailing  opinions;  but  to  how  many  all  this  is  but  a 
part  of  the  mere  machinery  of  life  !  There  are  those  who 
are  slow  to  profess  and  quick  to  feel,  who  can  only  bow 
in  meekness,  and  hope  with  trembling.  Shelley's  nature 
was  peculiarly  reverential,  but  he  entertained  certain  spe- 
culative doubts — and  with  the  ordinary  displays  of  Chris- 
tianity he  could  not  sympathize.  The  popular  conception 
of  the  Divinity  did  not  meet  liis  wants  ;  and  so  the  world 
attached  to  him  the  brand  of  atheist,  and,  under  this  ana- 
thema, hunted  him  down.  ''The  shapings  of  our  Hea- 
vens," says  Lamb,  '^  are  the  mod[ficatiens  of  our  constitu- 


SHELLEY.  247 

tions."     Shelley's  ideal  nature  modified  his  religious  seu- 
timent. 

._  "  I  loved,  I  know  not  what ;  but  this  low  sphere 
And  all  that  it  contains,  contains  not  thee  : 
Thou  whom  seen  nowhere,  I  feel  everywhere, 
Dim  object  of  my  soul's  idolatry.'"* 

His  Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty  is  instinct  with  the 
spirit  of  pure  devotion,  directed  to  the  highest  conception 
of  his  nature*  Unthinking,  indeed,  is  he  who  can  for  a 
moment  believe  that  such  a  being  could  exist  without  ado- 
ration. Dr.  Johnson  says  that  Milton  grew  old  without 
any  visible  worship.  The  opinions  of  Shtliey  are  no 
more  to  be  regarded  as  an  index  to  his  heart,  than  the 
blind  bard's  quiet  musings  as  a  proof  that  the  fire  of  devo- 
tion did  not  burn  within.  Shelley's  expulsion  from  col- 
lege, for  questioning  the  validity  of  Christianity,  or  per- 
haps more  justly,  asserting  its  abuses,  was  the  turning 
point  in  his  destiny.  This  event,  following  immediately 
upon  the  disappointment  of  his  first  attachment,  stirred 
the  very  depths  of  his  nature — and  in  all  probability, 
transformed  the  future  man,  from  a  good  English  squire, 
to  a  politician  and  reformer.  Then  came  his  premature 
marriage,  to  which  impulsive  gratitude  was  the  blind  mo- 
tive, the  bitter  consequences  of  his  error,  his  divorce  and 
separation  from  his  children,  his  new  and  happy  connec- 
tion founded  on  true  affection  and  intellectual  sympathy, 
his  adventurous  exile  and  sudden  death.  How  long,  we 
are  tempted  to  ask  in  calmly  reviewing  his  life,  will  it  re- 

*  The  Zucca. 


248 


SHELLEY. 


quire,  in  this  age  of  wonders,  for  the  truth  to  be  recognized 
that  opinions  are  independent  of  the  will,  and  therefore 
not,  in  themselves,  legitimate  subjects  of  moral  approba- 
tion or  blame?  It  has  be6n  said  that  the  purposes  of 
men  most  truly  indicate  their  characters.  Where  can  we 
find  an  individual  in  modern  history  of  more  exalted  aims 
than  Shelley  1  While  a  youth,  he  was  wont  to  stray  from 
his  fellows,  and  thougMfuUy  resolve 

"  To  be  wise 
And  just  and  free  and  mild."* 

When  suffering  poverty  in  London,  after  his  banish- 
ment, his  benevolence  found  exercise  in  the  hospitals, 
which  he  daily  visited  to  minisster  to  the  victims  of  pain 
and  disease.  The  object  of  constant  malice,  he  never 
degenerated  into  a  satirist. 

"  Alas,  good  friend,  what  profit  can  you  see 
In  hating  such  a  hateless  thing  as  me  ? 

*  *  *  * 

There  is  no  sport  in  hate,  when  all  the  rage 
Is  on  one  side. 

Of  your  antipathy 
If  I  am  the  Narcissus,  you  are  free 
To  pine  into  a  sound  with  hating  me."t 

Though  baffled  in  his  plans,  and  cut  off  from  frequent 
enjoyment  by  physicial  anguish,  love  and  hope  still 
triumphed  over  misanthropy  and  despair.  He  was  adored 
by  his  friends,  and  beloved  by  the  poor.  Even  Byron 
curbed  his  passions  at  Shelley's  wise  rebuke,  hailed  him 

*  Revolt  of  Islam.  t  Sonnet. 


I 


SHELLEY.  249 

as  his  better  angel,  and  transfused  something  of  his  ele- 
vated tone  into  the  later  emanations  of  his  genius. 

"  Fearless  he  was  and  scorning  all  disguise, 
What  he  dared  do  or  think,  though  men  might  start, 

He  spoke  with  mild  yet  unaverted  eyes  ; 
Liberal  he  was  of  soul  and  frank  of  heart ; 

And  to  his  deare>t  friends,  who  loved  him  well, 
Whale'er  he  knew  or  felt  he  would  impart."* 

And  yet  this  is  the  man  who  was  disgraced  and  banned 
for  his  opinions — deemed  by  a  court  of  his  country  un- 
worthy to  educate  his  own  children — disowned  by  his 
kindred,  and  forced  from  his  native  land  !  What  a  re- 
flection to  a  candid  mind,  that  slander  long  prevented  ac- 
quaintance and  communion  between  Shelley  and  Lamb! 
How  disgusting  the  thought  of  those  vapid  faces  of  the 
travelling  English,  who  have  done  more  to  disenchant 
Italy  than  all  her  beggars,  turned  in  scorn  from  the  poet, 
as  they  encountered  him  on  the  Pincian  or  Lung'Arno  ! 
With  what  indignation  do  we  think  of  that  beautiful  head 
being  defaced  by  a  blow  !  Yet  we  are  told,  when  Shelley 
was  inquiring  for  letters  at  a  continental  post-office,  some 
ruffian,  under  color  of  the  common  prejudice,  upon  hear- 
ing his  name,  struck  him  to  the  earth. 

As  a  poet  Shelley  was  strikingly  original.  He  main- 
tained the  identity  of  poetry  and  philosophy;  and  the 
bent  of  his  genius  seems  to  have  been  to  present  philoso- 
phical speculations,  and  "  beautiful  idealisms  of  moral 
excellence,"  in  poetical  forms.    He  was  too  fond  of  looking 

*  Prince  Athanase. 


25^  SHELLEY. 

beyond  the  obvious  and  tangible  to  form  a  merely  descrip- 
tive poet,  and  too  metaphysical  in  his  taste  to  be  a  purely 
sentimental  one.     He  has  neither  the  intense  egotism  of 
Byron,  nor  the  simple  fervor  of  Burns.     In  general,  the 
scope  of  his  poems  is  abstract,  abounding  in  wonderful 
displays    of  fancy  and  allegorical  invention.      Of  these 
qualities,  the  Revolt  of  Islam  is  a  striking  example.     This 
lack  of  personality  and  directness,  prevents  the  poetry  of 
Shelley  from   impressing  the  memory  like  that  of  Mrs. 
Hemans  or  Moore.     His  images  pass  before  the  mind  like 
frost-work  at  moonlight,  strangely  beautiful,  glittering  and 
rare,  but  of  transient  duration,  and  dream-like  interest. 
Hence,  the  great  body  of  his  poetry  can  never  be  popu- 
lar.    Of  this  he  seemed  perfectly  aware.     <'  Prometheus 
Unbound,"  according  to  his  own  statement,  was  composed 
with  a  view  to  a  very  limited  audience  ;  and  the  "  Cenci," 
which  was  written  according  to  more  popular  canons  of 
taste,  cost  him  great  labor.     The  other  dramas  of  Shelley 
are  cast  in  classical   moulds,  not  only  as  to  form  but  in 
tone  and  spirit ;  and  scattered  through  them  are  some  of 
the  most  splendid  gems  of  expression  and  metaphor  to  be 
found  in  the  whole  range  of  English  poetry,     Altkough 
these  classical  dramas  seem  to  have  been  most  congenial 
to  the  poet's  taste,  there  is  abundant  evidenceof  hissupe- 
rior  capacity  in  more  popular  schools  of  his  art.     For 
touching  beauty,  his  "  Lines  written  in  Dejection  near 
Naples,"  is  not  surpassed  by  any  similar  lyric  ;  and  his 
"  Sky- Lark"  is  perfectly  buoyant  with  the  very  music  it 
commemorates.     "Julian  and  Maddalo"  was  written  ac- 
cording to  Leigh  Hunt's  theory  of  poetical  diction,  and  is 


SHELLEY.  251 

a  graceful  specimen  of  that  style.  But  "The  Cenci"  is 
the  greatest  evidence  we  have  of  the  poet's  power  over  his 
own  genius.  Horrible  and  difficult  of  refined  treatment 
as  is  the  subject,  with  what  power  and  tact  is  it  developed ! 
When  I  beheld  the  pensive  loveliness  of  Beatrice's  por- 
trait at  the  Barbariui  palace,  it  seemed  as  if  the  painter 
had  exhausted  the  ideal  of  her  story.  Shelley's  tragedy 
should  be  read  with  that  exquisite  painting  before  the 
imagination.  The  poet  has  surrounded  it  with  an  inter- 
est surpassing  the  limner's  art.  For  impressive  effect 
upon  the  reader's  mind,  exciting  the  emotions  of  "terror 
and  pity"  which  tragedy  aims  to  produce,  how  few 
modern  dramas  can  compare  with  ''  The  Cenci !"  Per- 
haps''Adonais"  is  the  most  characteristic  of  Shelley's 
poems.  It  was  written  under  the  excitement  of  sympathy  ; 
and  while  the  style  and  images  are  peculiar  to  the  poet,  an 
uncommon  degree  of  natural  scHtiment  vivifies  this  elegy. 
In  dwelling  upon  its  pathetic  numbers,  we  seem  to  trace 
in  the  fate  of  Keats,  thus  poetically  described,  Shelley's 
own  destiny  depicted  by  the  instinct  of  his  genius. 

"  O,  weep  for  Adonais*! — The  quick  Dreams, 

The  passion- winged  Ministers  of  thought, 

Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  living  streams 

Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he  taught 

The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not, — 

Wander  no  more. 

***** 

'  O  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert. 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of  men 
Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though  mighty  heart, 
Dare  the  unpa^tured  dragon  in  his  den. 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh  !  where  was  then 


252  6HELLET. 

Wisdom  the  mirror' d  shield,  or  scorn  the  spear  ? 
Or  hadst  thou  waited  t  he  full  cycle,  when 
Thy  spirit  hhould  have  fill'd  its  crescent  sphere, 
The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from  thee  like  deer. 
*  *  *  *  * 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  these  carrion-kites  that  scream  below ; 
He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now. 
Dust  to  the  dust !  but  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 

A  portion  of  the  Eternal. 

***** 
He  has  outsoar'd  the  shadow  of  our  night ; 
Envy  and  calumny,  and  hate  and  pain, 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again  ; 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray  in  vain  ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn. 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 
***** 
The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown. 
Rose  from  their  thrones  built  beyond  mortal  thought 
Far  in  the  Unapparent. 
'  Thou  an  become  as  one  of  us,'  they  cry. 
***** 
And  he  is  gather'd  to  the  kings  of  thought 
Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's  decay, 

And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  away. 
***** 

Life,  like  a  dome  ofmany-color'd  glass, 

Stains  ihe  wiiite  radiance  of  Eternity, 

Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. 

*  *  *  * 

My  spirit's  bark  is  driven 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given." 


SHELLEr.  253 

The  elements  of  Shelley's  genius  were  rarely  mingled. 
The  grand  in  nature  delighted  his  muse.  Volcanoes  and 
glaciers,  x4.1pine  summits  and  rocky  caverns'  filled  his  fan- 
cy. It  was  his  joy  to  pass  the  spring-days  amid  the  ruined 
baths  of  Caracalla,  and  to  seek  the  corridors  of  the  Coli- 
seum at  moonlight.  He  loved  to  watch  the  growth  of 
thunder-showers,  and  to  chronicle  his  dreams.  Ger- 
man literature,  to  which  he  was  early  attracted,  prob- 
ably originated  much  of  his  taste  for  the  wild  and  wonder- 
ful.  Plato  and  the  Greek  poets,  sculpture  and  solitude, 
fed  his  spirit.  Such  ideas  as  that  of  will  unconquered  by 
tyranny,  the  brave  endurance  of  suffering,  legends  like 
the  '^Wandering  Jew" — the  poetry  of  evil  as  depicted  in 
» the  Book  of  Job — "  Paradise  Lost,"  the  story  of  "  Pro.. 
metheus,"  and  the  traditions  of  **  The  Cenci,"  interested 
him  profoundly.  He  revelled  in  "the  tempestuous  loveli- 
ness of  terror."  The  sea  was  Shelley's  idol.  Some  of 
his  happiest  hours  were  passed  in  a  boat.  The  easy  mo- 
tion, 

"  Actiye  without  toil  or  stress, 
Passive  without  listUness," 

probably  soothed  his  excitable  temperament ;  while  the 
expanse  of  wave  and  sky,  the  countless  phenomena  of 
cloud  and  billow,  and  the  awful  grandeur  of  storms  en- 
tranced his  soul.  Hence  his  favorite  illustrations  are  drawn 
from  the  sea,  and  many  of  them  are  as  perfect  pearls  of 
poesy  as  ever  the  adventurous  diver  rescued  from  the  deep 
of  imagination.  Nor  were  they  obtained  without  severe 
struggle  and  earnest  application.  Shelley's  life  was  in- 
22 


254  SHELLEY. 

tense,  and  although  only  in  his  thirtieth  year  when  his 
beloved  element  wrapped  him  in  the  embrace  of  death,  the 
snows  of  pretnature  age  already  flecked  his  auburn  locks; 
and,  in  sensation  and  experience,  he  was  wont  to  say,  he 
had  far  outsped  the  calendar.  Shelley  was  a  true  disci- 
ple of  love.  He  maintained  with  rare  eloquence  the 
spontaneity  and  sanctity  of  the  passion,  and  sought  to 
realize  the  ideal  of  his  affections  with  all  a  poet's  earnest- 
ness.    Alastor  typifies  the  vain  search. 

Time — the  great  healer  of  wounded  hearts — the  mighty 
vindicator  of  injured  worth — is  rapidly  dispersing  the 
mists  which  have  hitherto  shrowded  the  fame  of  Shelley. 
Sympathy  for  his  sufferings,  and  a  clearer  insight  into  his 
motives,  are  fast  redeeming  his  name  and  influence. 
Whatever  views  his  countrymen  may  entertain,  there 
is  a  kind  of  living  posterity  in  this  young  republic, 
who  judge  of  genius  by  a  calm  study  of  its  fruits, 
wholly  uninfluenced  by  the  dkstant  murtnur  of  local  preju- 
dice and  party  rage.  To  such,  the  thought  of  Shelley  is 
hallowed  by  the  aspirations  and  spirit  of  love  with  which 
his  verse  overflows ;  and  ia  their  pilgrimage  to  the  old 
world,  they  turn  aside  from  the  more  august  ruins  of  Rome, 
to  muse  reverently  upon  the  poet,  where 

"  One  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime, 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  plann'd 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transform'd  to  marble  ;  and  beneath, 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  of  death. 
Welcoming  him  we  love  with  scarce  extinguish'd  breath."* 

■■  '  '         •« — ■ ■ 

*  Adonais. 


SHELLEY.  255 

l^aTE. — This  article  having  been  censured  and  misunderstood,  the 
following  letter  was  afterwards  published  in  the  magazine  in  which  it 
appeared. 

"  Your  letter  informing  me  of  the  manner  in  which 
some  of  your  readers  have  seen  fit  to  regard  my  remarks 
on  Shelley,  is  at  hand.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conceive  how 
any  candid  or  discriminating  mind  can  view  the  article 
in  question  as  a  defence  of  Shelley's  opinions.  It  was 
intended  rather  to  place  the  man  himself  in  a  more  jus; 
point  of  view,  than  that  which  common  prejudice  assigns 
him.  I  only  contend  that  mere  opinions — especially  thnso 
of  early  youth,  do  not  constitute  the  only  or  the  best 
criterion  of  character.  I  have  spoken  in  defence  rather 
of  Shelley's  tendencies  and  real  purposes,  than  of  his 
theories,  and  endeavored  to  vindicate  what  was  truly  lovely 
and  noble  in  his  nature.  To  these  gifts  and  gracrs  the 
many  have  long  been  blinded.  We  have  heard  much  of 
Shelley's  atheistical  philosophy  and  little  of  his  benevolent 
heart,  much  of  his  boyish  infidelity  and  little  of  his  kind 
actsand  elevated  sentiments.  That  1  have  attempted  to 
call  attention  to  these  characteristics  of  the  poet,  I  can- 
not regret ;  and  to  me  such  a  course  seems  perfectly- 
consistent  with  a  rejection  of  his  peculiar  views  of  society 
and  religion.  These  we  know  were  in  a  great  degree 
visionary  and  contrary  to  well  established  principles  of 
human  nature.  Still  they  were  ever  undergoing  modi- 
fications, and  his  heart  often  anticipated  the  noblest  teach- 
ings of  faith.  A  careful  study  of  the  life  and  writings 
of  Shelley,  will  narrow  the  apparent  chasm  between 
him  and  the  acknowledged  ornaments  of  our  race.  It 
virill  lead  us  to  trace  much  that  is  obnoxious  in   his  vieiv^a 


256  SHELLEY, 

to  an  aggravated  experience  of  ill,  and  to  discover  in 
the  inmost  sanctuary  of  his  soul  much  to  venerate 
and  love,  much  that  will  f5ancti fy  the  genius  which 
the  careless  and  bigoted  regard  as  having  been  wholly 
desecrated. 

One  of  your  correspondents  says  "  I  do  not  pretend  to 
be  minutely  acquainted  with  the  details  of  his  life,  having 
never  read  his  letters  recently  published."  And  yet, 
confessedly  ignorant  of  the  subject,  as  he  is,  he  yet  goes  on 
to  repeat  and  exaggerate  the  various  slanders  which  have 
been  heaped  upon  the  name  of  one  who  I  still  believe 
should  rank  among  the  most  noble  characters  of  modern 
times.  It  is  not  a  little  surprising  that  while,  in  all  ques. 
tions  of  science,  men  deem  the  most  careful  inquiry  requi- 
site to  form  just  conclusions,  in  those  infinitely  more 
subtle  and  holy  inquiries  which  relate  to  human  character, 
they  do  not  scruple  to  yield  to  the  most  reckless  prejudice. 
Far  otherwise  do  I  look  upon  such  subjects.  When  an 
individual  has  given  the  most  undoubted  proof  of  high 
and  generous  character,  I  reverence  human  nature  too 
much  to  credit  every  scandalous  rumor,  or  acquiesce  in 
the  suggestions  of  malevolent  criticism,  regarding  him. 
Had  your  correspondent  examined  conscientiously  the 
history  of  Shelley,  he  would  have  discovered  that  he  never 
abandoned  his  wife,  and  thus  drove  her  to  self-destruction. 
They  were  wholly  unfit  companions.  Shelley  married  her 
from  gratitude,  for  the  kind  care  she  took  of  him  in  ill- 
ness. It  w,as  the  impulsive  act  of  a  generous  but  thought- 
less youth.  They  separated  by  mutual  consent,  and 
sometime  elapsed  before  she  committed  suicide.     That 


SHELLEY.  257 

event  is  said  to  have  overwhelmed  Shelley  with  grief,  not 
that  he  felt  himself  in  any  manner  to  blame,  but  that  he 
had  not  sufficiently  considered  his  wife's  incapacity  for 
self-government,  and  provided  by  suitable  care  for  so 
dreadful  an  exigency.  After  this  event,  Shelley  married 
Miss  Godwin,  with  whom  he  enjoyed  uninterrupted 
domestic  felicity  during  the  short  remainder  of  his  life. 
His  conduct  accorded  perfectly  with  the  views,  and,  in  a 
great  measure,  with  the  practice  of  Mi'ton.  With  that 
prying  injustice,  which  characterizes  the  English  press, 
in  relation  to  persons  holding  obnoxious  opinions,  the 
facts  were  misrepresented,  and  Shelley  described  as  one  of 
the  most  cruel  monsters.  So  much  for  his  views  of  Re- 
ligion and  Marriage.  "  A  Friend  to  Virtue"  is  shocked 
-  at  my  remark,  that  *'  opinions  are  not  in  themselves  le- 
gitimate subjects  of  moral  approbation  or  censure."  He 
should  have  quoted  the  whole  sentence.  The  reason 
adduced  is,  that  they  are  "  independent  of  the  ivilL" 
This  I  maintain  to  be  correct.  I  know  not  what  are  the 
grounds  upon  which  '*  A  Friend  of  Virtue"  estimates  his 
kind.  For  myself,  it  is  my  honest  endeavor  to  look 
through  the  web  of  opinion,  and  the  environment  of 
circumstances,  to  the  heart.  Intellectual  constitutions 
differ  essentially.  They  are  diversified  by  more  or  less 
imagination  and  reasoning  power,  and  are  greatly  in- 
fluenced by  early  impressions.  Accordingly,  it  is  very 
rarely  that  we  find  two  individuals  who  think  precisely 
alike  on  any  subject.  Even  in  the  same  person  opinions 
constantly  change.  Their  formation  originally  depends 
upon  the  peculiar  traits  of  mind  with  which  the  individual 
22* 


258  SHELLHY. 

is  endowed.     His  particular  moral  and  mental  experience 
afterwards  modifies  them,  so  that,  except  as  far  as  faithful 
inquiry  goes,  he  is  not  responsible  in  the  premises.     We 
must  then  look  to  the  heart,  the  native  disposition,  the 
feelings,  if  we  would  really  know  a  man.     Thus  regard- 
ed, Shelley  has  few  equals.     Speculatively  he  may  have 
been  an  Atheist ;   in  his  inmost  soul  he  was  a  Christian. 
This  may  appear  paradoxical,  but  I  believe  it  is  more  fre- 
quently the  case  than  we  are  aware.     An  inquiring,  argu- 
mentative mind,  may  often  fail  in  attaining  settled  con. 
victions ;   while  at  the  same   time  the  moral  nature  is  so 
true  and  active,  that  the  heart,  as  Wordsv/orth  says,  may 
'« do  God's  work  and  know  it  not."     Thus  I  believe  it 
was  with  Shelley.     Veneration  was  his  predominant  sen- 
timent.    His  biographer    and    intimate    friend,    Leigh 
Hunt,  says  of  him,  "  He  was  pious  towards  nature — to- 
wards his  friends — towards   the  whole  human  race — to- 
wards the   meanest  insect  of  the  forest.     He  did  himself 
an  injustice  with  the  public,  in  using  the   popular  name 
of  the  Supreme  Being  inconsiderately.     He  identified  it 
solely  with  the  most  tyrannical  notions  of  God,  made  af- 
ter the  worst  human  fashion  ;  and  did  not  sufficiently  re- 
flect that  it  was  often  used  by  a  juster  devotion  to  express 
a  sense  of  the  Great  Mover  of  the  Universe.     An  impa- 
tience in  contradicting  worldly  and  pernicious  notions  of 
a  supernatural  power,  led  his  own  aspirations  to  be  un- 
construed.     As  has   been  justly   remarked   by  a  writer 
eminent  for  his  piety — 'the  greatest  want  of  religious  feel- 
ing  is  not  to   be  found   among  the   greatest  infidels,  but 
among  those  who  only  think  of  religion  as   a  matter  of 


SHELLEY.  259 

course.'  The  more  important  the  proposition,  the  more 
he  thought  himself  bound  to  investigate  it ;  the  greater  the 
demand  upon  his  assent,  the  less  upon  their  own  princi- 
ples of  reasoning' he  thought  himself  bound  to  grant  it." 
Logical  training  was  the  last  to  which  such  a  nature  as 
Shelley's  should  have  been  subjected.  Under  this  disci- 
pline at  Oxford,  he  viewed  all  subjects  through  the  me- 
dium of  mere  reason.  Exceedingly  fond  of  argument, 
in  a  spirit  of  adventurous  boldness  he  turned  the  weap- 
pons  furnished  him  by  his  teachers,  against  the  venerable 
form  of  Christianity,  and  wrote  Queen  Mab.  Be  it  re- 
membered, however,  he  never  published  it.  The  MSS 
was  thus  disposed  of  without  his  knowledge,  and  against 
his  will.  Yet  at  this  very  time  his  fellow-student  tells  us 
that  Shelley  studied  fifteen  hours  .  a-day — lived  chiefly 
upon  bread,  in  order  to  save  enough  from  his  limited  in- 
come to  assist  poor  scholars — stopped  in  hi^  long'  walks 
to  give  an  orange  to  a  gipsey-boy,  or  purchase  milk  for 
a  destitute  child — talked  constantly  of  plans  for  the  ame- 
lioration of  society — was  roused  to  the  warmest  indigna- 
tion by  every  casual  instance  of  oppression-^yielded  up 
his  whole  soul  to  the  admiration  of  moral  excelle.nce — 
and  worshipped  truth  in  every  form  with  a  singleness  of 
heart,  and  an  ardor  of  feeling,  as  rare  as  it  was  inspiring. 
He  was,  according  to  the  same  and  kindred  testimony, 
wholly  unaffected  in  manner,  full  of  genuine  modesty, 
and  possessed  by  an  insatiable  thirst  for  knowledge.  Al- 
though a  devoted  student,  his  heart  was  unchilled  by 
mental  application.  He  at  that  time  delighted  in  the 
Platonic  doctrine  of  the  preexistence  of  the  soul,  and  loved 


260  SHELLEY. 

to  believe  that  all  knowledge  now  acquired  is  but  reminis. 
cence.  Gentle  and  affectionate  to  all;,  benevolent  to  a 
fault,  and  deeply  loved  by  all  who  knew  him,  it  was  his 
misfortune  to  have  an  early  experience  of  ill,  to  be  thrown 
rudely  upon  the  world — to  be  misunderstood  and  slander- 
ed, and  especially  to  indulge  the  wild  speculations  of  an 
ardent  mind  without  the  slightest  toorldly  prudence, 
Shelley,  phrenologically  speaking,  had  no  organ  of  cau- 
tiousness. Hence  his  virtues  and  graces  availed  him  not 
in  the  world,  much  as  they  endeared  him  to  those  who 
enjoyed  his  intimacy.  In  these  remarks  I  would  not  be 
misunderstood.  I  do  not  subscribe  to  Shelley's  opinions. 
I  regret  that  he  thought  as  he  did  upon  many  subjects  for 
his  own  sake  as  well  as  for  that  of  society.  The  great 
mass  of  his  poetry  is  not  congenial  to  my  taste.  And 
yet  these  considerations  do  not  blind  me  to  the  rare  quali- 
ty  of  his  genius — to  the  native  independence  of  his  mind 
— to  the  noble  aspirations  after  the  beautiful  and  the  true, 
which  glowed  in  his  soul.  I  honor  Shelley  as  that  rare 
character — a  sincere  man.  I  venerate  his  generous  senti- 
ments. I  recognise  in  him  qualities  which  I  seldom  find 
among  the  passive  recipients  of  opinion — the  tame  fol- 
lowers of  routine.  I  know  how  much  easier  it  is  to  con- 
form prudently  to  social  institutions  ;  but,  as  far  as  my 
experience  goes,  they  are  full  of  error,  and  do  great  in- 
jubtice  to  humanity.  I  respect  the  man  who  in  sincerity 
of  purpose  discusses  their  claims,  even  if  I  cannot  coin- 
cide in  his  views.  Nor  is  this  all.  I  cannot  lose  sight 
of  the  fact,  that  Shelley's  nature  is  but  partially  revealed 
to  us.     We  have  as  it  were  a  few  stray  gleams  of  his 


SHELLEY. 


261 


wayward  orb.  Had  it  fully  risen  above  the  horizon  in- 
stead of  being  prematurely  quenched  in  the  sea,  perchance 
its  beams  would  have  clearly  reflected  at  leist,  the  holy  efful- 
gence of  the  Star  of  Bethlehem.  Let  us  pity,  if  we  will,  the 
errors  of  Shelley's  judgment;  but  let  not  prejudice  blind 
us  to  his  merits.  "  His  life,"  says  his  wife,  "was  spent 
in  arduous  study,  and  in  acts  of  kindness  and  aflfection. 
To  see  him  was  to  love  him."  Surely  there  is  a  redeem- 
ing worth  in  the  memory  of  one  whose  bosom  was  ever 
ready  to  support  the  weary  brow  of  a  brother — whose 
purposes  were  high  and  true — whose  heart  was  enamored 
of  beauty,  and  devoted  to  his  race : 

if  this  fail, 


The  pillared  firmament  is  rottenness, 
And  earth's  base  built  on  stubble.. 


BtTRNS. 


There  are  certain  sentiments  which  "  give  the  world 
assurance  of  a  man^  They  are  inborn,  not  acquired. 
Before  them  fade  away  the  trophies  of  scholarship  and  the 
badges  of  authority.  They  are  the  most  endearing  of  hu- 
man attractions.  No  process  of  culture,  no  mere  grace  of 
manner,  no  intellectual  endowment,  can  atone  for  their 
absence,  or  successfully  imitate  their  charms.  These 
sentiments  redeem  our  nature  ;  their  indulgence  consti- 
tutes the  better  moments  of  life.  Without  them  we  grow 
mechanical  in  action,  formal  in  manner,  pedantic  in  mind. 
With  them  in  freshness  and  vigor,  we  are  true,  spontane- 
ous, morally  alive.  We  reciprocate  affection,  we  luxuri- 
ate in  the  embrace  of  nature,  we  breathe  an  atmosphere  of 
love,  and  glow  in  the  light  of  beauty.  Frankness,  manly 
independence,  deep  sensibility  and  pure  enthusiasm  are 
the  characteristics  of  the  true  man.  Against  these  fash- 
ion, trade  and  the  whole  train  of  petty  interests  wage  an 
unceasing  war.  In  few  hearts  do  they  survive ;  but 
wherever   recognized  they   carry  every  uuperverted  soul 


BURNS.  263 

back  to   childhood  and  up    to    God.       They  vindicate 
human   nature  with   irresistible   eloquence,  and  like  the 
air   of  mountains    and    the   verdure    of   valleys,    allure 
us     from  the   thoroughfare   of  routine    and   the    thorny 
path    of  destiny.      When   combined  with  genius,   they 
utter  an   appeal  to  the  world,   and  their   possessor  be- 
comes a  priest  of  humanity,  whose  oracles  send  forth  an 
echo  even  from  the  chambers  of  death.     Such  is  Robert 
Burns.     How  refreshing,  to  turn  from  the  would-be-pro. 
phets  of  the  day,  and  contemplate  the  inspired  ploughman  ! 
No  mystic  emblems   deform  his  message.     We  have  no 
hieroglyphics  to  decipher.     We  need  no  philosophic  critic 
at  our  elbow.     It  is  a  brother  who  speaks  to  us  ; — no  sin- 
gular specimen  of  spiritual  pride,  but  a  creature  of  flesh 
and  blood.     We  can  hear  the  beatings  of  his  brave  heart, 
not  always  like  a  '^muffled  drum,"  but  often  with  the  joy 
of  solemn  victory.     VVe  feel  the  grasp  of  his  toil-harden- 
ed hand.     We  see  the  pride  on  his  brow,  the  tear  in  his 
eye,  the   smile   on    his   lip.     We  behold  not  an  effigy  of 
buried  learning,  a  tame  image  from  the  mould  of  fashion, 
but  a  free,  cordial,  earnest  man  ; — one  with  whom  we  can 
roam   the  hills,  partake  the  cup,  praise  the  maiden,  or 
worship  the  stars.     He   is  a  human  creature,  only  over- 
flowing with  the   characteristics  of  humanity.     To  him 
belong  in  large  measure  the  passions  and  the  powers  of 
his  race.     He  professes  no  exemption  from  the  common 
lot.     He  pretends  not  to  live  on  rarer  elements.     He  ex- 
pects not  to  be  ethereal  before  death.     He  conceals  not 
his  share  of  frailty,  nor  turns  aside  from  penance.     He 
takes  *  with  equal  thanks'  a  sermon  or  a  song.     No  one 


264  BURNS, 

prays  more  devoutly ;  but  the  same  ardor  fires  his  earthly 
loves.  The  voice  that  "  wales  a  portion  with  judicious 
care,"  anon  is  attuned  to  the  convivial  song.  The  same 
eye  that  glances  with  poetic  awe  upon  the  hills  at  twi- 
light, gazes  with  a  less  subdued  fervor  on  the  winsome 
features  of  the  Highland  lassie.  And  thus  vibrated  the 
poet's  heart  from  earth  to  heaven, — from  the  human  to  the 
godlike.  Rarely  and  richly  were  mingled  in  him  the 
elements  of  human  nature.  His  crowning  distinction  is 
a  larger  soul  ;  and  this  he  carried  into  all  things, — to  the 
altar  of  God  and  the  festive  board,  to  the  ploughshare's 
furrow  and  the  letter  of  friendship,  to  the  martial  lyric 
and  the  lover's  assignation.  That  such  a  soul  should 
arise  in  the  midst  of  poverty  is  a  blessing.  So  do  men 
learn  that  all  their  appliances  are  as  nothing  before  the  ere- 
ative  energy  of  nature.  They  may  make  a  Parr;  she 
alone  can  give  birth  to  a  Burns.  It  is  to  be  rejoiced  at 
that  so  noble  a  brother  was  born  in  a  "  clay-built  cottage." 
Had  his  eyes  first  opened  in  a  palace,  so  great  a  joy  would 
not  have  descended  upon  the  lowly  and  the  toil-worn. 
These  can  now  more  warmly  boast  of  a  common  lineage. 
Perchance,  too,  that  fine  spirit  would  have  been  meddled 
with  till  quite  undone,  had  it  first  appeared  in  the  dwell- 
ing of  a  wealthy  citizen.  Books  and  teachers,  perhaps, 
would  have  subdued  its  elastic  freedom, — artificial  society 
perverted  its  heaven-born  fire.  Better  that  its  discipline 
was  found  in  <'  labor  and  sorrow,"  rather  than  in  social 
restraint  and  conformity.  Better  that  it  erred  through  ex- 
cess of  passion,  than  deliberate  hypocrisy.  So  rich  a 
Btream  is  less  marred  by  overflowing  its  bounds  than  by 


BURNS.  265 

growing  shallow.  It  was  nobler  to  yield  to  temptation 
from  wayward  appetite  than  through  ^'  malignity  or  de- 
sign." More  worthy  is  it  that  melancholy  should  take 
the  form  of  a  sad  sympathy  with  nature,  than  a  bitter  ha- 
tred of  man  ;  that  the  flowers  of  the  heart  should  be 
blighted  by  the  heat  of  its  lava-soil,  than  wither  in  the 
deadening  air  of  artificial  life.  Burns  lost  not  the  sus- 
ceptibility of  his  conscience,  or  the  sincerity  and  manli- 
ness  of  his  character.  In  a  higher  sphere  of  life,  these 
characteristics  would  have  been  infinitely  more  exposed. 
The  muse  of  Burns  is  distinguished  by  a  pensive  tender- 
ness. His  mind  was  originally  of  a  reflective  cast.  His 
education,  destiny  and  the  scenery  amid  which  he  lived 
deepened  this  trait,  and  made  it  prevailing.  True  sensi- 
bility is  the  fertile  source  of  sadness.  A  heart  constantly 
alive  to  the  vicissitudes  of  life  and  the  pathetic  appeals  of 
nature,  cannot  long  maintain  a  lightsome  mood.  From 
his  profound  feeling  sprang  the  beauties  of  the  Scottish 
bard.  He  who  could  so  pity  a  wounded  hare  and  elegize 
a  crushed  daisy,  whose  joung  bosom  favorites  were  Sterne 
and  Mackenzie,  lost  not  a  single  sob  of  the  storm,  nor 
failed  to  mark  the  gray  cloud  and  the  sighing  trees.  In 
this  intense  sympathy  with  the  mournful,  exists  the  germ 
of  true  poetical  elevation.  The  very  going  out  into  the 
vastly  sadj  is  sublime.  Personal  <;ares  are  forgotten  ; 
and  as  Byron  calls  upon  us  to  forget  our  <'  petty  misery" 
in  view  of  the  mighty  ruins  of  Rome,  so  the  dirges  of 
Nature  invite  us  into  a  grand  funereal  hall,  where  mortal 
sighs  are  lost  in  mightier  wailing.  This  element  of  pen- 
siveness  distinguishes  alike  the  poetry  and  character  of 
23 


266  BURNS. 

Burns.  He  tells  us  of  the  exalted  sensations  he  expe- 
rienced on  an  autumn  morning,  when  listening  to  the 
cry  of  a  troop  of  grey  plover  or  the  solitary  whistle  of  the 
curlew.  The  elements  raged  around  him  as  he  com- 
posed Bannockburn,  and  he  loved  to  write  at  night,  or 
during  a  cloudy  day,  being  most  successful  in  "  a  gloa- 
min'  shot  at  the  muses." 

There  was  a  thorough  and  pervading  honesty  about 
Burns, — that  freedom  from  disguise  and  simple  truth  of 
character,  to  the  preservation  of  which  rustic  life  is  emi- 
nently favorable.  He  was  open  and  frank  in  social  in- 
tercourse, and  his  poems  are  but  the  sincere  records  and 
outpourings  of  his  native  feelings. 

Just  now  I've  ta'en  the  fit  o'  rhyme, 
My  barmie  noddle's  working  prime 
My  fancy  yerkit  up  subhme 

Wi'  hasty  summon : 
Hae  ye  a  leisure  moment's  time 

'Vo  hear  what's  corain  ? 

Hence  he  almost  invariably  wrote  from  strong  emotion. 
<'My  passions,"  he  says,  "raged  like  so  many  devils 
until  they  found  vent  in  rhyme."  This  entire  truthful- 
ness  is  one  of  the  greatest  charms  of  his  verse.  For  the 
most  part  song,  satire  and  lyric  come  warm  from  his 
heart.  Insincerity  and  pretension  completely  disgusted 
him.  Scarcely  does  he  betray  the  slightest  impatience  of 
his  fellows,  except  in  exposing  and  ridiculing  these  traits. 
Holy  Willie's  prayer  and  a  few  similar  effusions  were 
penned  as   protests   against  bigotry   and  presumption. 


BURNS.  267 

Burns  was  too  devotional  to  bear  calmly  the  abuses  of  re- 
ligion, 

God  knows,  I'm  not  the  thing  I  should  be, 
Nor  am  I  even  the  thing  I  could  be, 
But  twenty  times,  I  rather  would  be. 

An'  atheist  clean 
Than  under  Gospel  colors  hid  be, 

Just  for  a  screen. 

But  satire  was  not  his  element.  Rather  did  he  love  to 
give  expression  to  benevolent  feeling  and  generous  affec- 
tion. The  native  liberality  of  his  nature  cast  a  mantle  of 
charity  over  the  errors  of  his  kind,  in  language  which,  for 
touching  simplicity,  has  never  been  equalled. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman  ; 
Tho'  they  may  gang  a  kennin  wrang ; 

To  step  aside  is  human  : 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  why  they  do  it : 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark, 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Wha  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us, 
He  knows  each  chord — its  various  tone, 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias  : 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it|; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute. 

But  know  not  what's  resisted. 

Burns  had  a  truly  noble  soul.  He  cherished  an  honest 
pride.  Obligation  oppressed  him,  and  with  all  his  rusti- 
city he  firmly  maintained  his  dignity  in  the  polished  cir- 


268  BURKS. 

cles  of  Edinburgh.  Like  all  manly  hearts,  while  he 
keenly  felt  the  sting  of  poverty,  his  whole  nature  recoil- 
ed from  dependence.  He  desired  money,  not  for  the  dis- 
tinction and  pleasure  it  brings,  but  chiefly  that  he  might 
be  free  from  the  world.  He  recorded  the  creed  of  tho 
true  man ; — 

To  catch  dame  Fortune's  golden  smile, 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her  ; 
And  gather  gear  by  ev'ry  wile 

That's  justified  by  honor; 
Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge, 

Not  for  a  train-attendant ; 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  independent. 

His  susceptibility  to  Nature  was  quick  and  impassioned. 
He  hung  wiih  rapture  over  the  hare-bell,  fox-glove,  budd- 
ing birch  and  hoary  hawthorn.  Though  chiefly  alive  to 
its  sterner  aspect?,  every  phase  of  the  universe  was  inex- 
pressibly dear  to  him. 

O  Nature  !  a'  thy  shows  an'  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charma  ! 
Whether  the  simmer  kindjy  warms, 

Wi'  life  an'  light, 
Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms, 

The  lang,  dark  night ! 

How  delightful  to  see  the  victim  of  poverty  and  care  thus 
yield  up  his  spirit  in  blest  oblivion  of  his  lot.  He  walked 
beside  the  river,  climbed  the  hill  and  wandered  over  the 
moor,  with  a  more  exultant  step  and  more  bounding  heart 
than  ever  conqueror  knew.  In  his  hours  of  sweet  reverie, 
all  consciousness  was  lost  of  outward  poverty,  in  the  rich- 


BURNS.  269 

ness  of  a  gifted  spirit.  Then  he  looked  upon  creation  as 
his  heritage.  He  felt  drawn  to  her  by  the  glowing  bond 
of  a  kindred  spirit.  Every  wild-flower  from  which  he 
brushed  the  dew,  every  mountain -top  to  which  his  eyes 
were  lifted,  every  star  that  smiled  upon  his  path,  was  a 
token  and  a  pledge  of  immortality.  He  partook  of  their 
freedom  and  cheir  beauty ;  and  held  fond  communion 
with  their  silent  loveliness.  The  banks  of  the  Doon  be- 
came  like  the  bowers  of  Paradise,  and  Mossgiel  was  as  a 
glorioKs  kingdom. 

Gie  me  ae  spark  o'  Nature's  fire, 
That's  a'  the  learning  I  desire  ; 
Then  tW  I  drudge  thro'  dub  an'  mire 

At  pie  ugh  or  cart, 
My  muse,  tho'  hamely  in  attire, 

May  touch  the  heart. 

That  complete  self-abandonment,  characteristic  of  poets, 
belonged  strikingly  to  Burns.  He  threw  himself,  all  sen- 
sitive and  ardent  as  he  was,  into  the  arms  of  Nature. 
He  surrendered  his  heart  unreservedly  to  the  glow  of  so- 
cial pleasure,  and  sought  with  equal  heartiness  the  peace 
of  domestic  retirement. 

But  why  o'  death  begin  a  tale  ? 

Just  now  we're  Uving  sound  and  hale, 

Then  top  and  maintop  crowd  the  sail, 

Heave  care  o'er  side  ! 
And  large,  before  enjoyment's  gale, 

Let's  tak  the  tide. 

This  life  has  joys  for  you  and  I, 
And  joys  that  riches  ne'er  could  buy, 
23* 


270  BURNS. 

And  joys  the  very  best.  ' 

There's  a'  the  pleasures  o'  the  heartj 

The  lover  and  the  frien  ; 
Ye  hae  your  Meg,  your  dearest  part, 
_     And  I  ray  darUng  Jean  ! 

He  sinned,  and  repented,  with  the  same  singleness  of 
purpose,  and  completeness  of  devotion.  This  is  illustra- 
ted in  many  of  his  poems.  In  his  love  and  grief,  in  his 
joy  and  despair,  we  find  no  medium  ; — 

By  passion  driven  ; 
And  yet  the  Hght  that  led  astray 
Was  hght  from  heaven. 

Perhaps  the  freest  and  deepest  element  of  the  poetry  of 
Burns,  is  lovci  With  the  first  awakening  of  this  passion 
in  his  youthful  breast,  came  also  the  spirit  of  poetry. 
"My  heart,"  says  one  of  his  letters,  "was  complete  tin- 
der, and  eternally  lighted  up  by  some  goddess  or  other." 
He  was  one  of  those  susceptible  men  to  whom  love  is  no 
fiction  or  fancy  ;  to  whom  it  is  not  only  a  "  strong  ne- 
cessity," but  an  overpowering  influence.  To  female  at- 
tractions he  was  a  complete  slave.  An  eye,  a  tone,  a 
grasp  of  the  hand,  exercised  over  him  the  sway  of  desti- 
ny. His  earliest  and  most  lilissful  adventures  were  fol- 
lowing in  the  harvest  with  a  bonnie  lassie,  or  picking 
nettles  out  of  a  fair  one's  hand.  He  had  no  armor  of 
philosophy  wherewith  to  resist  the  spell  of  beauty.  Ge- 
nius betrayed  rather  than  absolved  him  ;  and  his  soul  found 
its  chief  delight  and  richest  inspiration  in  the  luxury  of 
loving. 


BURNS.  271 

O  happy  love !  where  love  like  this  is  found  . 

O  heart-felt  raptures  !  bliss  beyond  compare  ! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary  mortal  round. 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 
"  If  heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair, 

In  others'  arms  breathe  out  the  tendar  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn,  that  scents  the  evening  gale." 

And  yet  the  love  of  Burns  was  poetical  chiefly  in  its  ex- 
pression. He  loved  like  a  man.  Kis  was  no  mere  sen- 
timental passion,  but  a  hearty  attachment.  He  sighed 
not  over  the  pride  of  a  Laura,  nor  was  satisfied  with  a 
smile  of  distant  encouragement.  Genuine  passion  was 
only  vivified  and  enlarged  in  his  heart  by  apoetical  mind. 
He  arrayed  his  rustic  charmer  with  few  ideal  attractions. 
His  vows  were  paid  to 

A  creature  not  too  bright  orgood 
For  human  nature's  dailj-  food; 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears  and  smiles. 

Her  positive  and  tangible  graces  were  enough  for  him. 
He  sought  not  to  exalt  them,  but  only  to  exhibit  the  fer- 
vor of  his  attachment.  Even  in  his  love  was  there  this 
singular  honesty.  Exaggerated  flattery  does  not  mark 
his  amatory  poems,  but  a  warm  expression  of  his  passion- 
ate regard,  a  sweet  song  over  the  joys  of  affection.  Per- 
haps no  poet  has  better  depicted  true  love,  in  its  most 
common  manifestation.  Of  the  various  objects  of  his  re- 
gard, the  only  one  who  seems  to  have  inspired  any  pure- 
ly poetical  sentiment  was  Highland  Mary.     Their  solemn 


272  BURNS., 

parting  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  and  her  early  death,  are 
familiar  to  every  reader  of  Burns.  Her  memory  seemed 
consecrated  to  his  imagination,  and  he  has  made  it  im- 
mortal by  his  beautiful  lines  to  Mary  in  Heaven.  Nor 
was  the  Scottish  bard  unaware  how  deep  an  inspiration 
he  derived  from  the  gentler  sex.  He  tells  us  that  when  he 
desired  to  feel  the  pure  spirit  of  poetry  and  obey  success- 
fully itd  impulse,  he  put  himself  on  a  regimen  of  admir- 
ing a  fine  woman. 

Health  to  the  sex,  ilk  guid  chiel  says, 
Wi'  merry  dance  in  winter  days, 

An'  we  to  share  in  common  ; 
The  gust  o'  joy,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  soul  o'  life,  the  heaven  below, 

Is  rapture-giving  woman. 

And  of  all  the  agencies  of  life  there  is  none  superior  to 
this.  Written  eloquence,  the  voice  of  the  bard,  the  music 
of  creation,  will  often  fail  to  awaken  the  heart.  We  can- 
not always  yield  ourselves  to  the  hidden  spell.  But  in  the 
sofl  light  o^  her  eye  genius  basks,  till  it  is  warmed  into  a 
new  and  sweeter  life.  The  poet  is  indeed  kindled  by 
communion  with  the  most  lovely  creation  of  God.  He 
is  subdued  by  the  sweetest  of  human  influences.  His 
wings  are  plumed  beside  the  fountain  of  love,  and  he  soars 
thence  to  heaven. 

The  poetical  temperament  is  now  better  and  more  gen- 
erally understood  than  formerly.  Physiologists  and  moral 
philosophers  have  labored,  not  without  success,  to  diffuse 
correct  ideas  of  its  laws  and  liabilities.  Education  now 
averts,  in  frequent  instances,  the  fatal  errors  to  which  be- 


BURNS.  273 

ings  thus  organized  are  peculiarly  exposed.  No  one  has 
more  truly  described  some  features  of  the  poet's  fate* 
than  the  author  of  Tam  O'Shanter  and  the  Cotter's  Sat- 
urday Night: — 

Creature,  though  oft  the  prey  of  care  and  sorrow, 
When  blest  today,  unmindful  of  to-morrow; 
A  being  formed  t'  amuse  his  graver  friends. 
Admired  and  praised — and  there  the  homage  ends  ; 
A  mortal  quite  unfit  for  fortune's  strife, 
Yet  oft  the  sport  of  all  the  ills  of  Ufe  ; 
Prone  to  enjoy  each  pleasure  rii  hes  give, 
Yet  haply  wanting  wherewithal  to  live  ; 
Longing  to  wipe  each  tear,  to  heal  each  groan, 
Yet  frequent  all  unheeded  in  his  own. 

The  love  of  excitement,  the  physical  and  moral  sensibili- 
ty, the  extremes  of  mood,  which  belong  to  this  class  of 
men,  require  a  certain  discipline  on  the  one  hand  and  in- 
^dulgence  on  the  other,  which  is  now  more  readily  accord- 
^ed.  Especially  do  we  look  with  a  more  just  eye  upon  the 
frailties  of  poets.  It  is  not  necessary  to  defend  them. 
They  ara  only  the  more  lamentable  from  being  connected 
with  high  powers.  But  it  is  a  satisfaction  to  trace  their 
jprigin  to  unfavorable  circumstances  of  life  and  peculiarities 
P^f  organization.  Burns  labored  under  the  disadvantage 
of  a  narrow  and  oppressive  destiny,  opposed  to  a  sensi- 
tive and  exalted  soul.  From  the  depths  of  obscure  pov- 
erty he  awoke  to  fame.  Strong  and  adroit  as  he  was  at 
the  several  vocations  of  husbandry,  he  possessed  no  tact 
as  a  manager  or  financier.  With  the  keenest  relish  for 
enjoyment,  his  means  were  small,  and  the  claims  of  his 
fkm'ily  unceasing.     Susceptible  to  the  most  refined  inflo- 


274  BURNS. 

ences  of  nature,  quick  of  apprehension,  aud  endowed  with 
a  rich  fancy,  his  animal  nature  was  not  less  strongly  de- 
veloped. His  flaming  heart  lighted  not  only  the  muse's 
torch,  but  the  tempest  of  passion.  He  often  sought  to 
drown  care  in  excess.  He  did  not  faithfully  struggle 
with  the  allurements  which  in  reality  he  despised.  How 
deeply  he  felt  the  transitory  nature  of  human  enjoyment, 
he  has  told  us  in  a  series  of  beautiful  similes  : — 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 

You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed  ; 

Or  like  the  sno  w  falls  in  the  river, 

A  moment  white — then  melts  for  ever ; 

Or  like  the  borealis  race, 

That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place  ; 

Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 

Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 

Tossed  on  the  waves  of  an  incongruous  experience,  ele- 
vated by  his  gifts,  depressed  by  his  condition,  the  heir  of 
fame,  but  the  child  of  sorrow — gloomy  in  view  of  his  ac- 
tual prospects,  elated  by  his  poetic  visions, — the  life  of 
Burns  was  no  ordinary  scene  of  trial  and  temptation. 
While  we  pity,  let  us  reverence  him.  Let  us  glory  in 
such  fervent  song  as  he  dedicated  to  love,  friendship,  pat- 
riotism  and  nature.  True  bursts  of  feeling  came  from 
the  honest  bosom  of  the  ploughman.  Sad  as  was  his  ca- 
reer  at  Dumfries,  anomalous  as  it  seems  to  picture  him 
as  an  exciseman,  how  delightful  his  image  as  a  noble 
peasant  and  ardent  bard !  What  a  contradiction  between 
his  human  existence  an  1  his  inspired  soul!  Literature 
enshrines  few  more  endeared  memorials  than  the  poems 


BURNS.  275 

of  Burns.  His  lyre  is  wreathed  with  wild-flowers.  Its 
tones  are  simple  and  glowing.  Their  music  is  like  the 
cordial  breeze  of  his  native  hills.  It  still  cheers  the  ban- 
quet,  and  gives  expression  to  the  lover's  thought.  Its 
pensive  melody  has  a  twilight  sweetness ;  its  tender  ar- 
dor is  melting  as  the  sunbeams.  Around  the  cottage  and 
the  moor,  the  scene  of  humble  affection,  the  rite  of  lowly 
piety,  it  has  thrown  a  hallowed  influence,  which  embalms 
the  memory  of  Burns,  and  breathes  perpetual  masses  for 
his  soul. 


WORDSWORTH. 


In  an  intellectual  history  of  our  age,  the  bard  of  Rydal 
Mount  must  occupy  a  prominent  place.  His  name  is  so 
intimately  associated  with  the  poetical  criticisms  of  the 
period,  that,  even  if  his  productions  are  hereafter 
neglected,  he  cannot  wholly  escape  consideration.  Th6 
meie  facts  of  his  life  will  preserve  his  memory.  It  will 
not  be  forgotten  that  one  among  the  men  of  acknowledged 
genius  in  England,  during  a  period  of  great  political  ex- 
citement, and  when  society  accorded  to  literary  success 
the  highest  honors,  should  voluntarily  remain  secluded 
amid  the  mountains,  the  uncompromising  advocate  of 
a  theory,  from  time  to  time  sending  forth  his  effusions, 
as  uncolored  by  the  poetic  taste  of  the  time,  as  statues 
from  an  isolated  quarry.  It  has  been  the  fortune  of 
Wordsworth,  like  many  original  characters,  to  be  almost 
wholly  regarded  from  the  two  extremes  of  prejudice  and 
admiration.  The  eclectic  spirit,  which  is  so  appropriate 
to  the  criticism  of  Art,  has  seldom  swayed  his  commen- 
tators. It  has  scarcely  been  admitted,  that  his  works  may 
please  to  a  certain  extent,  and  in  particular  traits,  and  in 


WORDSWORTH.  277 

Other  respects   prove  wholly  uncongenial.     Whoever  re- 
cognizes his  beauties  is  h -Id  responsible  for  his  system  ; 
arid  those  who  have  stated  his  defects,  have  been  unfairly 
ranked  with  the  insensible    and  unreasonable  reviewers 
who  so  fiercely  assailed  him  at  the  outset  of  his  career. 
There  is  a  medium  ground,  from  which  we  can  survey 
the  subject  to  more  advantage.     From  this  point  of  ob- 
servation,  it  is  easy  to   perceive  that  there  is  reason  on 
both   sides  of  the  question.     It  was  natural  and  just  that 
the  lovers  of  poetry,  reared  in  the  school  of  Shakspeare, 
should  be  repelled  at  the  outset  by  a  new  minstrel,  whose 
prelude  was  an  argument.     It  was  like  being  detained  at 
the  door  of  a  cathedral   by  a  dull  cicerone,   who,   before 
granting  admittance,  must  needs  deliver  a  long  homily 
on  the  grandeur  of  the  interior,  and  explain  away  its  de- 
ficiencies,    "Let  us  enter,"  we  impatiently  exclaim  :  "  if 
the  building  is  truly  grand,  its  sublimity  needs  no  expo- 
sitor ;  if  it  is  otherwise,  no  reasoning  will  render  it  impres- 
sive."    The  idea  of  adopting  for  poetical   objects   "the 
real  language  of  men,  when  in  a  state  of  vivid  sensation," 
was  indeed,  as  Coleridge  observes,  never  strictly  attempt- 
ed ;  but  there  was  something  so  deliberate,  and  even  cold, 
in  Wordsworth's  first  appeal,  that  we  cannot  wonder  it 
was  unattractive.     Byron  and  Burns  needed  no  introduc- 
tion.    The  earnestness  of  their  manner  secured  instant 
attention.     Their  principles  and  purposes  were  matters 
of  after- thought.     Whoever  is  even  superficially  acquaint- 
ed  with  human  nature,  must   have  prophecied  a  doubtful 
reception  to  a  bard,  who  begins  by  calmly  stating  his 
reasons  for  considering  prose  and  verse  identical,  his 
24 


278 


WORDSWORTH. 


wish  to  inculcate  certain  truths  which  he  deemed  neglect, 
ed,  and  the  several  considerations  which  induced  him  to 
adopt  rhyme  for  the  purpose.  Nor  is  this  feeling  wholly 
unworthy  of  respect,  even  admitting,  with  Wordsworth, 
that  mere  popularity  is  no  evidence  of  the  genuineness  of 
poetry.  Minds  of  poetical  sensibility  are  accustomed  to 
regard  the  true  poet  as  so  far  inspired  by  his  experience, 
as  to  write  from  a  spontaneous  enthusiasm.  They  regard 
verse  as  his  natural  element — the  most  congenial  form  of 
expression.  They  imagine  he  can  scarcely  account 
wholly  to  himself,  far  less  to  others,  for  his  diction  and 
imagery, — any  farther  than  they  are  the  result  of  emotion 
too  intense  and  absording  to  admit  of  any  conscious  or 
reflective  process.  Even  if  "poetry  takes  its  origin 
from  emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity,"  it  must  be  of 
that  earnest  and  lender  kind,  which  is  only  occasionally 
experienced.  Trust,  therefore,  was  not  readily  accorded 
a  writer  who  scarcely  seemed  enamored  of  his  Art,  and 
presented  a  theory  in  prose  to  win  the  judgment,  instead 
of  first  taking  captive  the  heart  by  the  music  of  his  lyre. 
Nor  is  this  the  only  just  cause  of  Wordsworth's  eaily 
want  of  appreciation.  He  has  "aot  only  written  too  much 
from  pure  reflection,  but  the  quantity  of  his  verse  is 
wholly  out  of  proportion  to  its  quality.  He  has  too  often 
written  for  the  mere  sake  of  writing.  The  mine  he  open- 
ed may  be  inexhaustible,  but  to  him  it  is  not  given  to 
bring  to  light  all  its  treasures.  His  characteristics  are 
not  universal.  His  power  is  not  unlimited.  On  the 
contrary,  his  points  of  peculiar  excellence,  though  rare, 
are  comparatively  few.     He  has  endeavored  to  extend  his  . 


WORDSWORTH,  279 

range  beyond  its  natural  bounds.  In  a  word,  he  has 
written  too  much,  and  too  indiscriminately.  It  is  to  be 
feared  that  habit  has  made  the  work. of  versifying  neces- 
sary, and  he  has  too  often  resorted  to  it  merely  as  an  oc- 
cupation. Poetry  is  too  sacred  to  be  thus  mechanically 
pursued.  The  true  bard  seizes  only  genial  periods,  and 
inciting  themes.  He  consecrates  only  his  better  mo- 
ments to  "the  divinest  of  arts."  He  feels  that  there  is  a 
correspondence  between  certain  subjects  and  his  indivi- 
dual genius,  and  to  these  he  conscientiously  devotes  his 
powers.  Wordsworth  seems  to  have  acted  on  a  different 
principle.  It  is  obvious  to  a  discerning  reader  that  his 
muse  is  frequently  whipped  into  service.  He  is  too  often 
content  to  indite  a  series  of  coinmou-place  thoughts,  and 
memorialize  topics  which  have  apparently  awakened  in 
his  mind  only  a  formal  interest.  It  sometimes  seems  as 
if  he  had  taken  up  the  business  of  a  bard,  and  felt  bound 
to  fulfil  its  functions.  His  political  opinions,  his  histori- 
cal reading,  almost  every  event  of  personal  experience, 
must  be  chronicled,  in  the  form  of  a  sonnet  or  blank 
verse.  The  language  may  be  chaste,  the  sentiment  un- 
exceptionable, the  moral  excellent,  and  yet  there  may  be 
no  poetry,  and  perhaps  the  idea  has  been  often  better 
expressed  in  prose.  Even  the  admirers  of  Wordsworth 
are  compelled,  therefore,  to  acknowledge,  that  with  all  his 
unrivalled  excellencies,  he  has  written  too  many 

"  Such  lays  as  neither  ebb  nor  flow, 
Correctly  cold,  and  regularly  slow." 

Occasional  felicities  of  style  do  not  atone  for  such  frequent 


280  WORDSWORTH. 

desecration  of  the  muse,  ^\e  could  fors^ive  them  in  a 
less-gifted  minstrel ;  but  with  one  of  Wordsworth's  genius 
it  is  more  difficult  to  compromise.  The  number  of  his 
indifferent  attempts  shade  the  splendor  of  his  real  merit. 
The  poems  protected  by  his  fame,  which  are  uninspired 
by  his  genius,  have  done  much  to  blind  a  large  class  of 
readers  to  his  intrinsic  worth.  Another  circumstance  has 
contributed  to  the  same  result.  His  redeeming  graces  of- 
ten, from  excess,  become  blemishes.  In  avoiding  the 
tinsel  of  a  meretricious  style,  he  sometimes  degenerates 
into  positive  homeliness.  In  rejecting  profuse  ornament, 
he  often  presents  his  conceptions  in  so  bald  a  manner  as 
to  prove  utterly  unattractive.  His  simplicity  is  not  un- 
frequently  childish  ,  his  calmness  stagnation,  his  pathos 
puerility.  And  these  impressions,  in  some  instances^ 
have  been  allowed  to  outweigh  those  which  his  more 
genuine  qualities  inspire.  For  when  we  reverse  the  pic- 
ture, Wordsworth  presents  claims  to  grateful  admiration, 
second  to  no  poet  of  the  age  ;  and  no  susceptible  and  ob-. 
serving  mind  can  study  his  writings  without  yielding  him 
at  least  this  cordial  acknowled«j;ment.  It  is  not  easy  to 
estimate  the  happy  influence  Wordsworth  has  exerted  up- 
on poetical  taste  and  practice,  by  the  example  he  has  given 
of  a  more  simple  and  artless  style.  Like  the  sculptors 
who  lead  their  pupils  to  the  anatomy  of  the  human  frame, 
and  the  painters  who  introduced  the  practice  of  drawing 
from  the  human  figure,  Wordsworth  opposed  to  the  artifi- 
ficial  and  declamatory,  the  clear  and  natural  in  diction. 
He  exhibited,  as  it  were,  a  new  sxDurce  of  the  elements  of 
expression.     He  endeavored,  and  with  singular  success,. 


WORDSWORTH.  281 

to  revive  a  taste  for  less  exciting  poetry.  He  boldly  tried 
the  experiment  of  introducing  plain  viands,  at  a  banquet 
garnished  with  all  the  art  of  gastronomy.  He  offered  to 
substitute  crystal  water  for  ruddy  wine,  and  invited  those 
accustomed  only  to  "  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night,"  to  go 
forth  and  breathe  the  air  of  mountains,  and  gaze  into  the 
mirror  of  peaceful  lakes.  He  aimed  to  persuade  men 
that  they  could  be  ''  moved  by  gentler  excitements  "  than 
those  of  luxury  and  violence.  He  essayed  to  calm  their 
beating  hearts,  to  cool  their  fevered  blood,  to  lead  them 
gently  back  to  the  fountains  that  '^  go  softly."  He  bade 
them  repose  their  throbbing  brows  upon  the  lap  of  Nature. 
He  quietly  advocated  the  peace  of  rural  solitude,  the  plea-, 
sure  of  evening  walks  among  the  hills,  as  more  salutary 
than  more  ostentatious  amusements.  The  lesson  was 
suited  to  the  period.  It  came  forth  from  the  retirement 
of  Nature  as  quietly  as  a  zephyr ;  but  it  was  not  lost  in 
the  hum  of  the  world.  Insensibly  it  mingled  with  the 
noisy  strife,  and  subdued  it  to  a  sweeter  murmur.  It  fell 
upon  the  heart  of  youth,  and  its  passions  grew  calmer. 
It  imparted  a  more  harmonious  tone  to  the  meditations  of 
the  poet.  It  tempered  the  aspect  of  life  to  many  an  eager 
spirit,  and  gradually  weaned  the  thoughtful  from  the  en- 
croachments  of  false  taste  and  conventional  habits.  To 
a  commercial  people  it  portrayed  the  attractiveness  of 
tranquillity.  Before  an  unhealthy  and  flashy  literature, 
it  set  up  a  standard  of  truthfulness  and  simplicity.  In  an 
age  of  mechanical  triumph,  it  celebrated  the  majestic  re- 
sources of  the  universe. 
To  this  calm  voice  from  the  mountains,  none  could 
24* 


282  WORDSWORTH. 

listen  without  advantage.  What  though  its  tones  were 
sometimes  monotonous  ? — they  were  hopeful  and  serene. 
To  listen  exclusively,  might  indeed  prove  wearisome  ;  but 
in  some  placid  moments  those  mild  echoes  could  not  but 
bring  good  cheer.  In  the  turmoil  of  cities,  they  refreshed 
from  contrast ;  among  the  green  fields,  they  inclined  the 
mind  to  recognize  blessings  to  which  it  is  often  insensi- 
ble. There  were  ministers  to  the  passions,  and  apostles 
of  learning,  sufficient  for  the  exigencies  of  the  times. 
Such  an  age  could  well  suffer  one  preacher  of  the  sim- 
pie,  the  natural  and  the  true;  one  advocate  of  a  wisdom 
not  born  of  books,  of  a  pleasure  not  obtainable  from  soci- 
ety, of  a  satisfaction  underived  from  outward  activity. 
And  such  a  prophet  proved  William  Wordsworth. 

Sensibility  to  Nature  U  characteristic  of  poets  in  gen- 
eral. Wordsworth's  feelings  in  this  regard  have  the  char- 
acter of  affection.  He  does  not  break  out  into  ardent 
apostrophes  like  that  of  Byron  addressed  to  the  Ocean,  or 
Coleridge's  Hymn  at  Chamouni;  but  his  verse  breathes 
a  constant  and  serene  devotion  to  all  the  charms  of  natu- 
ral scenery — from  the  mountain-range  that  bounds  the 
horizon,  to  the  daisy  beside  his  path : 

"  If  stately  passions  in  me  burn, 
And  one  chance  look  to  thee  I  turn, 
I  drink,  out  of  an  humbler  urn, 

A  lowlier  pleasure  ; 
The  homely  sypmathy  that  heeds 
The  common  life  our  nature  breeds, 
A  wisdom,  fitted  to  the  needs 

Of  hearts  at  leisure." 


WORDSWORTH.  283 

He  does  not  seem  so  much  to  resort  to  the  quiet  scenes  of 
the  country  for  occasional  recreation,  as  to  live  and 
breathe  only  in  their  tranquil  atmosphere.  His  interest 
in  the  universe  has  been  justly  called  personal.  It  is  not 
the  passion  of  a  lover  in  the  dawn  of  his  bliss,  nor  the 
unexpected  delight  of  a  metropolitan,  to  whose  sense  rural 
beauty  is  arrayed  in  the  charms  of  novelty  ;  but  rather  the 
settled,  familiar,  and  deep  attachment  of  a  friend  : 

"  Though  absent  long, 
These  forms  of  beauty  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye  : 
But  oft  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  1  have  owed  to  them 
In  hours  of  weariness  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind 
With  tranquil  restoration." 

The  life,  both  inward  and  outward,  of  Wordsworth,  is 
most  intimately  associated  with  lakes  and  mountains. 
Amid  them  he  was  born,  and  to  them  has  he  ever  looked 
for  the  necessary  aliment  of  his  being.  Nor  are  his  feel- 
ings  on  the  subject  merely  passive  or  negative.  He  has 
a  reason  for  the  faith  that  is  in  him.  To  the  influences 
of  Nature  he  brings  a  philosophic  imagination.  No  tran- 
sient pleasure,  no  casual  agency,  does  he  ascribe  to  the 
outward  world.  In  his  view,  its  functions  in  relation  to 
man  are  far  more  penetrating  and  efficient  than  has  ever 
been  acknowledged.  Human  education  he  deems  a  pro- 
cess for  which  the  Creator  has  made  adequate  provision 
in  this  "goodly  frame"  of  earth  and  sea  and  sky. 


284  WORDSWORTH. 

"He  had  small  need  of  books ;  for  many  a  Tale 
Traditionary,  round  the  mountains  hung; 
And  many  a  legend  peopled  the  dark  woods, 
Nourished  Imagination  in  her  growth, 
And  gare  the  Mind  that  apprehensive  power, 
By  which  it  is  made  quick  to  recognize 
The  moral  scope  and  aptitude  of  things." 
***** 

"  One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
J  May  teach  you  more  of  man,  ■ 

Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 
Than  all  the  sages  can." 

Accordingly,  both  in  details  and  combination,  Nature  has 
been  the  object  of  his  long  and  earnest  study.  To  illus- 
trate her  unobserved  and  silent  ministry  to  the  heart,  has 
been  his  favorite  pursuit.  From  his  poems  might  be 
gleaned  a  compendium  of  mountain  influences.  Even 
the  animal  world  is  viewed  in  the  same  light.  In  the 
much-ridiculed  Peter  Bell,  Susan,  and  the  White-Doe  of 
Rylstone,  we  have  striking  instances.  To  present  the 
affecting  points  of  its  relation  to  mankindhasbeen  one  of 
the  most  daring  experiments  of  his  muse  : 

"  One  lesson,  shepherd,  let  us  two  divide. 
Taught  both  by  what  she  shows  and  what  conceals, 

Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride, 
With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that  feels." 

It  is  the  common  and  universal  in  Nature  that  he  loves 
to  celebrate.  The  rare  and  startling  seldom  find  a  place 
in  his  verse.  That  calm,  soothing,  habitual  language, 
addressed  to  the  mind  by  the  common  air  and  sky,  the 
ordinary  verdure,  the  field-flower,  and  the  sunset,  is  the 
almost  invariable  theme  of  his  song.     And  herein  have 


WORDSWORTH.  285 

his  labors  proved  chiefly  valuable.  They  have  tended  to 
make  us  more  reverent  listeners  to  the  daily  voices  of  earth, 
to  make  us  realize  the  goodness  of  our  common  heritage, 
and  partake,  with  a  more  conscious  and  grateful  sensibil- 
ity, of  the  beautiful  around  us.  In  the  same  spirit  has 
Wordsworth  looked  upon  human  life  and  history.  To  lay 
bare  the  native  elements  of  character  in  its  simplest  form, 
to  assert  the  essential  dignity  of  life  in  its  most  rude  and 
common  manifestations,  to  vindicate  the  interest  which 
belongs  to  human  beings,  simply  as  such,  have  been  the 
darling  objects  of  his  thoughts.  Instead  of  Corsairs  and 
Laras,  peerless  ladies  and  perfect  knights,  a  waggoner,  a 
beggar,  a  potter,  a  pedlar,  are  the  characters  of  whose 
feelings  and  experience  he  sings.  The  operation  of  in- 
dustry, bereavement,  temptation,  remorse  and  local  in- 
fluences, upon  these  children  of  humble  toil,  have  furnished 
problems  which  he  has  delighted  to  solve.  And  who  shall 
say  that  in  so  doing,  he  has  not  been  of  signal  service  to  his 
kind?  Who  shall  say  that  through  such  portraits  a  wider 
and  truer  sympathy,  a  more  vivid  sense  of  human  brother- 
hood, a  more  just  self-respect,  has  not  been  extensively 
awakened  ?  Have  not  oar  eyes  been  thus  opened  to  the 
better  aspects  of  ignorance  and  poverty?  Have  we 
not  thus  been  made  to  feel  the  true  claims  of  man  ?  Al- 
lured by  the  gentle  monitions  from  Rydal  Mount,  do  we 
not  now  look  upon  our  race  in  a  more  meek  and  suscep- 
tible mood,, and  pass  the  lowliest  being  beside  the  high- 
way, with  more  of  that  new  sentiment  of  respect  and  hope 
which  was  heralded  by  the  star  of  Bethlehem?  Can  we 
not  more  sincerely  exclaim  with  the  hero  of  Sartor  Resav 


286  WORDSWORTH. 

tus :  <' Poor,  wandering,  wayward  man!  Art  thou  not 
tried,  beaten  with  many  stripes,  even  as  I  am  ?  Ever, 
whether  thou  wear  the  royal  mantle  or  the  beggar*s  gaber- 
dine, art  thou  not  so  weary,  so  heavy  laden  ?  O  !  my 
brother,  my  brother  !  why  cannot  1  shelter  thee  in  my 
bosom,  and  wipe  away  all  tears  from  thine  eyes  ?" 

In  accordance  with  this  humane  philosophy.  Childhood 
is  contemplated  by  Wordsworth.  The  spirit  of  the  Sa- 
viour's sympathy  with  this  beautiful  era  of  life,  seems  to 
possess  his  muse.  Its  unconsciousness,  its  ignorance  of 
death,  its  trust,  hope  and  peace,  its  teachings,  and  pro- 
mise he  has  portrayed  with  rare  sympathy.  Witness, 
"  We  are  Seven,"  the  "  Pet  Lamb,"  and  especially  the 
Ode,  which  is  perhaps  the  finest  and  most  characteristic 
of  Wordsworth's  compositions.  A  reader  of  his  poetry, 
who  imbibes  its  spirit,  can  scarcely  look  upon  the  young 
with  indifference.  The  parent  must  thence  derive  a  new 
sense  of  the  sacredness  of  children,  and  learn  to  reverence 
their  innocence,  to  leave  unmarred  their  tender  traits,  and 
to  yield  them  more  confidently  to  the  influences  of  Nature. 
In  his  true  and  feeling  chronicles  of  the  "heaven"  that 
"lies  about  us  in  our  infancy,"  Wordsworth  has  uttered  a 
silent  but  most  eloquent  reproach  upon  all  the  absurdities 
and  sacrilegious  abuses  of  modern  education.  He  has 
made  known  the  truth,  that  children  have  their  lessons  to 
convey  as  well  as  receive  : 

"  O  dearest,  dearest  boy,  my  heart 

For  better  lore  would  seldom  yearn, 
Could  I  but  teach  the  hundreth  part 
Of  wkat  from  thee  I  learn." 


WORDSWORTH.  287 

He  has  made  more  evident  the  awful  chasm  between  the 
repose  and  hopefulness  of  happy  childhood,  and  the  cyni- 
cal distrust  of  worldly  age.  He  thus  indirectly  but  forci- 
bly appeals  to  men  for  a  more  guarded  preservation  of  the 
early  dew  of  existence,  so  recklessly  lavished  upon  the 
desert  of  ambition  : 


■Those  first  affections, 


i 


Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  he  they  what  Ihey  may, 

Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day  ; 

Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 

Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 

Of  the  eternal  silence." 

He  has  exemplified  that  the  worst  evil  of  life  is  rather  ac- 
quired than  inherited,  and  vindicated  the  beneficent  de- 
signs  of  the  Creator,  by  exhibiting  humanity  when  fresh 
from  his  hand.  This  is  a  hi^h  moral  service.  Upon 
manyof  those  who  have  become  familiar  with  Wordsworth 
in  youth,  such  impressions  must  have  been  permanent 
and  invaluable,  greatly  influencing  their  observation  of 
life  and  nature,  and  touching  "  to  finer  issues"  their  un- 
pledged sympathies.  It  is  with  the  eye  of  a  meditative 
poet  that  Wordsworth  surveys  life  and  nature.  And  thus 
inspired,  a  new  elevation  is  imparted  to  "ordinary  moral 
sensations,"  and  it  is  the  sentiment  rather  than  the  sub- 
ject which  gives  interest  to  the  song.  Hence  it  is  abso- 
lutely necessary  that  the  reader  should  sympathize  with  the 
feelings  of  the  poet,  to  enjoy  or  understand  him.  He  ap- 
peals to  that  contemplative  spirit  which  does  not  belong 


288  WORDSWORTH. 

to  all,  and  visits  even  its  votaries  but  occasionally ;  to 
"a  sadness  that  has  its  seat  in  the  depths  of  reason ;"  he 
professes  to  *'  follow  the  fluxes  and  refluxes  of  the  mind 
when  agitated  by  the  great  and  simple  affections  of  our 
nature."  To  enter  into  purposes  like  these,  there  must 
exist  a  delicate  sympathy  with  human  nature,  a  reflective 
habit,  a  mingling  of  reason  and  fancy,  an  imagination 
active  but  not  impassioned.  The  frame  of  mind  which 
he  labors  to  induce,  and  in  which  he  must  be  read,  is 

"  That  sweet  mood  when  pleasure  loves  to  pay 

Tribute  to  ease  :  and,  of  its  joy  secure, 

The  heart  luxuriates  with  indifferent  things, 

Wasting  its  kindliness  on  stocks  and  stones, 

And  on  the  vacant  air  ;" 

***** 


-that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 


In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, 
Until  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame, 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood, 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul. 
While,  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy. 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things." 

This  calm  and  holy  musing,  this  deep  and  intimate 
communion  with  Nature,  this  spirit  of  peace,  should  some- 
times visit  us.  There  areperiods  when  passionate  poetry 
wearies,  and  a  lively  measure  is  discordant.  There  are 
times  when  we  are  calmed  and  softened,  and  it  is  a  luxury 
to  pause  and  forget  the  promptings  of  desire  and  the  cares 
of  life  ;  when  it  is  a  relief  to  leave  the  crowd  and  wander 
into  solitude  ,  when,  faint  and  disappointed,  we  seek,  like 


r 


WORDSWORTH.  289 

tired  children,  the  neglected  bosom  of  Nature,  and  in  the 
serenity  of  her  maternal  smile,  find  rest  and  solace.  Such 
moments  redeem  existence  from  its  monotony,  and  refresh 
the  human  heart  with  dew  from  the  urns  of  Peace.  Then 
it  is  that  the  bard  of  Rydal  Mount  is  like  a  brother,  and 
xve  deeply  feel  that  it  is  good  for  us  to  have  known  him. 


25 


COLERIDGE. 


Coleridge  appears  to  have  excelled  all  his  contempo- 
raries in  personal  impressiveness.  Men  of  the  highest 
talent  and  cultivation  have  recorded,  in  the  most  enthu- 
siastic terms,  the  intellectual  treat  his  conversation  af- 
forded. The  fancy  is  captivated  by  the  mere  description 
of  his  fluent  and  emphatic,  yet  gentle  and  inspired  lan- 
guage. We  are  haunted  with  these  vivid  pictures  of  the 
'  old  man  eloquent,'  as  by  those  of  the  sages  of  antiquity, 
and  the  renowned  improvisator es  of  modern  times. 
Hazlitt  and  Lamb  seem  never  weary  of  theme.  They 
make  us  realize,  as  far  as  description  can,  the  affectionate  M 
temper,  the  simple  bearing,  and  earnest  intelligence  of 
their  friend.  We  feel  the  might  and  interest  of  a  living 
soul,  and  sigh  that  it  was  not  our  lot  to  partake  directly  of 
its  overflowing  gifts. 

Though  so  invaluable  as  a  friend  and  companion,  un- 
fortunately for  posterity,  Coleridge  loved  to  talk  and  read 
far  more  than  to  write.  Hence  the  records  of  his  mind 
bear  no  proportion  to  its  endowments  and  activity.  Ill- 
health  early  drew  him  from   *' life  in   motion,  to  life   in 


COLERIDGE.  291 

thought  and  sensation."  Necessity  drove  him  to  literary 
labor.  He  was  too  unambitious,  and  found  too  much 
enjoyment  in  the  spontaneous  exercise  of  his  mind, 
to  assume  willingly  the  toils  of  authorship.  His  mental 
tastes  were  not  of  a  popular  cast.  In  boy-hood  he  *•  waxed 
not  pale  at  philosophic  draughts,"  and  there  was  in  his 
soul  an  aspiration  after  truth — an  interest  in  the  deep 
things  of  life — a  '  hungering  for  eternity',  essentially 
opposed  to  success  as  a  miscellaneous  writer.  One  of 
the  most  irrational  complaints  against  Coleridge,  was  his 
dislike  of  the  French.  Never  was  there  a  more  honest 
prejudice.  In  literature,  he  deemed  that  nation  respon- 
sible for  having  introduced  the  artificial  school  of  poetry, 
which  he  detested  ;  in  politics,  their  inhuman  atrocities, 
during  the  revolution,  blighted  his  dearest  theory  of  man  ; 
in  life,  their  frivolity  could  not  but  awaken  disgust  in  a 
mind  so  serious,  and  a  heart  so  tender,  where  faith  and 
love  were  cherished  in  the  very  depths  of  reflection  and 
sensibility.  It  is,  indeed,  easy  to  discover  in  his  works 
ample  confirmation  of  the  evidence  of  his  friends,  but 
they  afford  but  an  unfinished  monument  to  his  genius. 
We  must  be  content  with  the  ^ew  memorials  he  has  left 
of  a  powerful  imagination  and  a  good  heart.  Of  these 
his  poems  furnish  the  most  beautifid.  They  are  the 
sweetest  echo  of  his  marvellous  spirit ; — 

A  song  divine,  of  high  and  passionate  thoughts, 
To  their  own  music  chaunted. 

The  eyes  of  the  ancient  Mariner  holds  us,  in   its  wild 
spell,  as  it  did  the  wedding-guest,  while  we  feel  the  truth  that 


292  COLERIDGE. 

He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 

All  things  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 

He  made  and  loveth  all. 

The  charm  of  regretful  tenderness  is  upon  us  with  as 
sweet  a  mystery,  as  the  beauty  of  the  "  lady  of  a  far 
countrie,"  when  we  read  these  among  other  musical  lines 
of  Christabel  : 

^Alas !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth  ; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth  \ 
And  constancy  Uves  in  realms  above  ; 
And  life  is  thorny  ;  and  youth  is  vain ; 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love, 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 

"No  man  was  ever  yet  a  great  poet,  without  being  at 
the  same  time  a  profound  philosopher."     True  as  this 
may  be  in  one  sense,  we  hold  it  an  unfortunate  rule  for  a 
poetical  mind  to  act  upon.     It  was  part  of  the  creed  of 
Coleridge,  and  his  works  illustrate  its  unfavorable  influ- 
ence.    His  prose  generally  speaking,  is  truly  satisfactory 
only  when  it  is  poetical.     The  human  mind  is  so  consti- 
tuted as  to  desire  completeness.     The  desultory  character 
of  Coleridge's  prose  writings  is  often  wearisome  and  dis- 
turbing.   He  does  not  carry  us  on  to  a  given  point  by  a  re- 
gular road,  but  is  ever  wandering  from  the  end  proposed. 
We  are  provoked  at  this  waywardness  the  more,  because, 
ever  and  anon,  we  catch  glimpses  of  beautiful  localities, 
and  look  down  most  inviting  vistas.     At  these  promising 
fields  of  thought,  and  vestibules  of  truth,  we  are  only  per- 
mitted   to     glance,    and    then     are     unceremoniously 


COLEEIDGE.  293 

hurried  off  in  the  direction  that  happens  to  please  our 
guide's  vagrant  humor.     This  desultory  style  essentially 
mars  the  interest  of  nearly  all  the  prose  of  this  distinguish- 
ed man.     Not  only  the  compositions,  but  the  opinions, 
habits,  and  experience  of  Coleridge,  partake  of  the  same 
erratic  character.     His  classical  studies  at  Christ's  hospi- 
tal were  interwoven  with  the  reading  of  a  circulating  li- 
brary.    He  proposed  to  become  a  shoemaker  while  he 
was  studying  medicine.     He  excited  the  wonder  of  every 
casual  acquaintance  by  his  schoolboy  discourse,  while  he 
provoked  his  masters  by  starting  an  argument  instead  of 
repeating  a  rule.     He  incurred  a  chronic  rheumatism  by 
swimming  with  his  clothes  on,  and  left  the  sick  ward  to 
enlist  in  a  regiment  of  dragoons.     He  laid  magnificent 
plans  of  primitive  felicity  to  be  realized  on  the  banks  of 
the   Susquehanna,  while  he  wandered  penniless  in  the 
streets  of  London.     He  was  at  different  times  a  zealous 
Unitarian,  and  a  high  Churchman — a  political  lecturer — 
a    metaphysical    essayist — a   preacher — a    translator — a 
traveller — a  foreign  secretary — a  philosopher — an  editor — 
a  poet.     We  cannot  wonder  that  his  productions,  partic- 
ularly  those  that  profess  to  be  elaborate,  should  in  a  mea- 
sure, partake  of  the  variableness  of  his  mood.     His  works, 
like  his  life,    are  fragmentary.     He  is,    too,  frequently 
prolix,  labors  upon  topics  of  secondary  interest  and  excites 
only  to  disappoint  expectation.     By  many  sensible  read- 
ers his  metaphysical  views  are  pronounced  unintelligible, 
and  by  some  German  scholars  declared  arrant  plagiarisms. 
These  considerations  are  the  more  pa  inful  from  our  sense  of 
the  superiority  of  the  man.  He  proposes  to  awaken  thought, 

25* 


294  COLERIDGE. 

to  address  and  call  forth  the  higher  faculties,and  to  vindi- 
cate the  claims  of  important  truth.  Such  designs  claim 
respect.  We  honor  the  author  who  conscientiously  en- 
tertains them.  We  seat  ourselves  reverently  at  the  feetof 
a  teacher  whose  aim  is  so  exalted.  We  listen  with  curi- 
osity  and  hope.  Musical  are  many  of  the  periods,  beau- 
tiful the  images,  and  here  and  there  comes  a  single  idea 
of  striking  value  ;  but  for  these  we  are  obliged  to  hear 
many  discursive  exordiums,  irrelevant  episodes  and  ran. 
dom  speculations.  We  are  constantly  reminded  of  Charles 
Lamb's  reply  to  the  poet's  inquiry  if  he  had  ever  heard 
him  preach— « I  never  knew  you  do  any  thing  else,' said  Elia, 
It  is  highly  desirable  that  the  prose- writings  of  Coleridge 
should  be  thoroughly  winnowed.  A  volume  of  delightful 
aphorisms  might  thus  be  easily  gleaned.  Long  after  we 
have  forgotten  the  general  train  of  his  observations,  iso- 
lated remarks,  full  of  meaning  and  truth,  linger  in  our 
memories.  Scattered  through  his  works  are  many  say- 
ings, referring  to  literature  and  human  nature,  which 
would  serve  as  maxims  in  philosophy  and  criticism. 
Their  effect  is  often  lost  from  the  position  they  occupy,  in 
the  midst  of  abstruse  or  dry  discussions  that  repel  the 
majority  even  of  truth-seekers.  His  Biographia  is  the 
most  attractive  of  his  prose  productions. 

It  is  not  difficult,  in  a  measure  at  least  to  explain,  or 
rather  account  for,  these  peculiarities.  Coleridge  him- 
self tells  us  that  in  early  youth,  he  indulged  a  taste  for  meta- 
physical speculations  to  excess.  He  was  fond  of  quaint 
and  neglected  authors.  He  early  imbibed  a  love  of  con- 
troversy, and  took  refuge  in  first  principles,  in  the  elements 


COLERIDGE.  295 

of  man^s  nature  to  sustain  his  positions.  To  this  ground 
few  of  his  school-fellows  could  follow  him ;  and  we  can. 
not  wonder  that  he  became  attached  to  a  field  of  thought  sel- 
dom explored,  and,  from  its  very  vague  and  mystical  charac> 
ter,  congenial  to  him.  That  he  often  reflected  to  good  pur- 
pose it  would  be  unjust  to  deny;  but  that  his  own  consci- 
ousness, at  times,  became  morbid,  and  his  speculations,  in 
consequence,  disjointed  and  misty,  seems  equally  obvious. 
We  are  not  disposed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  this  irreg- 
ular development  of  mental  power  is  the  least  useful. 
Perhaps  one  of  Coleridge's  evening  conversations  or 
single  aphorisms  has  more  deeply  excited  some  minds  to 
action,  than  the  regular  performances  of  a  dozen  inferior 
men.  It  is  this  feeling  which  probably  led  him  to  ex- 
press, with  such  earnestness,  the  wish  that  the  "criterion 
of  a  scholar's  utility  were  the  number  and  value  of  the 
truths  he  has  circulated  and  minds  he  has  awakened." 

A  distinguishing  trait  of  Coleridge's  genius  was  a  rare 
power  of  comparison.  His  metaphors  are  often  unique 
and  beautiful.  Here  also  the  poet  excels  the  philosopher. 
It  may  be  questioned  if  any  modern  writer  whose  works 
are  equally  limited,  has  illustrated  his  ideas  with  more 
originality  and  interest.  When  encountered  amid  his 
grave  disquisitions,  the  similitudes  of  Coleridge  striking, 
ly  proclaim  the  poetfcal  cast  of  his  mind,  and  lead  us  to 
regret  that  its  energies  were  not  more  devoted  to  the 
imaginative  department  of  literature.  At  times  he  was 
conscious  of  the  same  feeling.  "■  Well  were  it  for  me 
perhaps,"  he  remarks  in  the  Biographia,  '^hadlnever 
relapsed  into  the  same  mental  disease  ;  if  I  had  continued 


296  COLERIDGE. 

to  pluck  the  flower  and  reap  the  harvest  from  the  cultivated 
surface,  instead  of  delving  in  the  unwholesome  quicksil- 
ver mines  of  metaphysic  depths."  That  he  formed  as 
just  an  estimate  of  the  superficial  nature  of  political  labor, 
is  evident  from  the  following  allusion  to  partizan  characters : 

Fondly  these  attach 
A  radical  causation  to  a  few 
Poor  drudges  of  chastising  Providence, 
Who  borrow  all  their  hues  and  qualities 
From  our  own  folly  and  rank  wickedness, 
Which  gave  them  birth  and  nursed  them. 

A  few  examples  taken  at  random,  will  suflice  to  show 
his  "  dim  similitudes  woven  in  moral  strains." 

"  To  set  our  nature  at  strife  with  itself  for  a  good  pur- 
pose, implies  the  same  sort  of  prudence  as  a  priest  of 
Diana  would  have  manifested,  who  should  have  proposed 
to  dig  up  the  celebrated  charcoal  foundations  of  the  mighty 
temple  of  Ephesus,  in  order  to  furnish  fuel  for  the  buint- 
offerings  on  its  altars." 

"  The  reader,  who  would  follow  a  close  reasoner  to  the 
summit  of  the  absolute  principle  of  any  one  important 
subject,  has  chosen  a  chamois-hunter  for  his  guide.  He 
cannot  carry  us  on  his  shoulders  :  we  must  strain  our 
sinews,  as  he  has  strained  his ;  and  make  firm  footing  on 
the  smooth  rock  for  ourselves,  by  the  blood  of  toil  from 
our  own  feet." 

<<  In  the  case  of  libel,  the  degree  makes  the  kind,  the 
circumstances  constitute  the  criminality  ;  and  both  degree 
and  circumstances,  like  the  ascending  shades  of  color,  or 


COLERIDGE.  297 

the  shooting  hues  of  a  dove's  neck,  die  away  into  each 
other,  incapable  of  definition  or  outline." 

"  Would  to  Heaven  that  the  verdict  to  be  passed  on  my 
labors  depended  on  those  who  least  needed  them  !  The 
water-lily  in  the  midst  of  waters  lifts  up  ita  broad  leaves 
and  expands  its  petals,  at  the  first  pattering  of  the  shower, 
and  rejoices  in  the  rain  with  a  quicker  sympathy  than  the 
parched  shrub  in  the  sandy  desert." 

"  Human  experience,  like  the  stern  lights  of  a  ship  at 
sea,  illumines  only  the  path  which  we  have  passed 
over." 

"  I  have  laid  too  many  eggs  in  the  hot  sands  of  this 
wilderness,  the  world,  with  ostrich  carelessness  and  ostrich 
oblivion.  The  greater  part,  indeed,  have  been  trod  under 
foot,  and  are  forgotten  ;  but  yet  no  small  number  have 
crept  forth  into  life,  some  to  furnish  feathers  for  the  caps 
of  others,  and  still  more  to  plume  the  shafts  in  the  quivers 
of  my  enemies." 

On  the  driving  cloud  the  shining  bow, 

That  gracious  thing  made  up  of  smiles  and  tears, 

Mid  the  wild  rack  and  rain  that  slant  below 

Stands— 

As  though  the  spirits  of  all  lovely  flowers 

Inweaving  each  its  wreath  and  dewy  crown. 

And  ere  they  sunk  to  earth  in  vernal  showers, 

Had  built  a  bridge  to  tempt  the  angels  down. 

Remorse  is  as  the  heart  in  which  it  grows  : 
If  that  be  gentle,  it  drops  balmy  dews 
Of  true  repentance  ;  but  if  proud  and  gloomy, 
It  is  a  poison  tree,  that,  pierced  to  the  inmost, 
Weeps  only  tears  of  poison. 


298  COLERIDGE. 

The  more  elaborate  poetical  compositions  of  Coleridge 
display  much  talent  and  a  rare  command  of  language. 
His  dramatic  attempts,  however,  are  decidedly  inferior  in 
interest  and  power  to  many  of  his  fugitive  pieces.  Wal- 
lenstein,  indeed,  is  allowed  to  be  a  master-piece  of  trans- 
lation— and,  although  others  have  improved  upon  certain 
passages,  as  a  whole  it  is  acknowledged  to  be  an  unequal- 
led specimen  of  its  kind.  But  to  realize  the  true  elements 
of  the  poet's  genius,  we  must  have  recourse  to  his  minor 
poems.  In  these,  his  genuine  sentiments  found  genial 
development.  They  are  beautiful  emblems  of  his  personal 
history,  and  admit  us  to  the  secret  chambers  of  his  heart. 
We  recognize,  as  we  ponder  them,  the  native  fire  of  his 
muse,  "unmixed  with  baser  matter."  Of  the  juvenile 
poems,  the  Monody  on  Chatterton  strikes  us  as  the  most 
remarkable.  It  overflows  with  youthful  sympathy,  and 
contains  passages  of  singular  power  for  the  effusions  of  so 
inexperienced  a  bard.  Take,  for  instance,  the  following 
lines,  where  an  identity  of  fate  is  suggested  from  the  con- 
sciousness of  error  and  disappointment : 

Poor  Chatterton  !  he  sorrows  for  thy  fate 

Who  would  have  praised  and  loved  thee,  ere  too  late. 

Poor  Chatterton  !  farewell !  of  darkest  hues 

This  chaplet  cast  I  on  thy  unshapen  tomb  ; 

But  dare  no  longer  on  the  sad  theme  muse, 

Lest  kindred  woes  persuade  a  kindred  doom  : 

For  oh  !  big  gall-drops,  shook  from  Folly's  wing, 

Have  blackened  the  fair  promise  of  my  spring ; 

And  the  stern  Fate  transpierced  with  viewless  dart 

The  last  pale  Hope  thai  shivered  at  my  heart. 


COLERIDGE.  299 

Few  young  poets  of  English  origin  have  written  more 
beautiful  amatory  poetry  than  this  : 

O  (have  I  sighed)  were  mine  the  wizard's  rod, 
Or  mine  the  power  of  Proteus,  changeful  god  ! 
A  flower-entangled  arbor  I  would  seem 
To  shield  my  love  from  noontide's  sultry  beam  : 
Or  bloom  a  myrtle,  from  whose  odorous  boughs 
My  love  might  weave  gay  garlands  for  her  brows. 
When  twilight  stole  across  t^ie  fading  vale 
To  fan  my  love  I'd  be  the  evening  gale ; 
Mourn  in  the  soft  folds  of  her  swelling  vest, 
And  flutter  my  faint  pinions  on  her  breast ! 
On  seraph  wing  I'd  float  a  dream  by  night, 
To  soothe  my  love  with  shadows  of  delight : — 
Or  soar  aloft  to  be  the  spangled  skies. 
And  gaze  upon  her  with  a  thousand  eyes  ! 

Nor  were  religious  sentiments  unawakened : 

Fair  the  vernal  mead, 
Fair  the  high  grove,  the  sea,  the  sun,  the  stars ; 
True  impress  each  of  their  creating  Sire  ! 
Yet  nor  high  grove,  nor  many-colored  mead, 
Nor  the  green  Ocean  with  his  thousand  isles, 
Nor  the  starred  azure,  nor  the  sovran  sun, 
E'er  with  such  majesty  of  portraiture 
Imaged  the  supreme  being  uncreate. 
As  thou,  meek  Saviour  !  at  the  fearless  hour 
When  thy  insulted  anguish  winged  the  prayer 
Harped^by  archangels,  when  they  sing  of  mercy  ! 
Which  when  the  Almighty  heard  from  forth  his  throne 
Diviner  light  filled  heaven  with  ecstacy  ! 
Heaven's  hymnings  paused  :  and  hell  her  yawning  mouth 
Closed  a  brief  moment. 

It  is  delightful  to  dwell  upon  these  early  outpourings 
of  an  ardent  and  gifted  soul.     They  lay  bare  the  real 


300  COLERIDGE. 

characteristics  of  Coleridge.  Without  them  our  sense  of 
his  genius  would  be  far  more  obscure.  When  these  ju- 
venile  poems  were  written  '  existence  was  all  a  feeling, 
not  yet  shaped  into  a  thought.'  Here  is  no  mysticism  or 
party-feeling,  but  the  simplicity  and  fervor  of  a  fresh 
heart,  touched  by  the  beauty  of  the  visible  world,  by  the 
sufferings  of  genius,  and  the  appeals  of  love  and  religion. 
The  natural  and  the  sincere  here  predominate  over  the 
studied  and  artificial.  Time  enlarged  the  bard's  views, 
increased  his  stores  of  knowledge,  and  matured  his  men. 
tal  powers  ;  but  his  genius,  as  pictured  in  his  writings, 
though  strengthened  and  fertilized,  thenceforth  loses  much 
of  its  unity.  Its  emanations  are  frequently  more  grand 
and  startling,  but  less  simple  and  direct.  There  is  more 
machinery,  and  often  a  confusion  of  appliances.  We 
feel  that  it  is  the  same  mind  in  an  advanced  state ; — the 
same  noble  instrument  breathing  deeper  strains,  but  with 
a  melody  more  intricate  and  sad. 

In  the  Sibylline  Leaves  we  have  depicted  a  later  stage 
of  the  poet's  life.  Language  is  now  a  more  effective  ex- 
pedient.  It  follows  the  thought  with  a  clearer  echo.  It 
is  woven  with  a  firmer  hand.  The  subtle  intellect  is 
evidently  at  work  in  the  very  rush  of  emotion.  The  poet 
has  discovered  that  he  cannot  hope 

"  from  outward  forms  to  win 
The  passion  and  the  life,  whose  fountains  are  within." 

A  new  sentiment,  the  most  solemn  that  visits  the  breast 
of  humanity,  is  aroused  by  this  reflective  process — the 
sentiment  of  duty.     Upon  the  sunny  landscape  of  youth 


COLERIDGE.  301 

falls  the  twilight  of  thought.  A  conviction  has  entered  the 
bosom  of  the  minstrel  that  he  is  not  free  to  wander  at 
will  to  the  sound  of  his  own  music.  His  life  cannot  be 
a  mere  revel  in  the  embrace  of  beauty.  He  too  is  a  man, 
born  to  suffer  and  to  act.  He  cannot  throw  off  the  re- 
sponsibility  of  lif«.  He  must  sustain  relations  to  his  fel- 
lows. The  scenery  that  delights  him  assumes  a  new  as. 
pect.  It  appeals  not  only  to  his  love  of  nature,  but  his 
sense  of  patriotism  : 

O  divine 
And  beauteous  i&land  !  thou  hast  been  my  sole 
And  most  magnificent  temple,  in  the  which 
I  walk  with  awe,  and  sing  my  stately  songs, 
Loving  the  God  that  made  me ! 

More  tender  ties  bind  the  poet-soul  to  his  native 
isle — 

A  pledge  of  more  than  pa.«sing  life — 

Yea,  in  the  very  name  of  wife. 

*  *  *  * 

Then  was  I  thrilled  and  melted,  and  most  warm 
Impressed  a  father's  kiss. 

Thus  gather  the  many-tinted  hues  of  human  destiny 
around  the  life  of  the  young  bard.  To  a  mind  of  philo- 
sophical cast,  the  transition  is  n»st  interesting.  It  is 
the  distinguishing  merit  of  Coleridge,  that  in  his  verse 
we  find  these  epochs  warmly  chronicled.  Most  just  is  his 
vindication  of  himself  from  the  charge  of  egotism.  To 
what  end  are  beings  peculiarly  sensitive,  and  capable  of 
rare  expression,  sent  into  the  world,  if  not  to  make  us 
feel  the  mysteries  of  our  nature,  by  faithful  delineations, 

26 


302 


COLERIDGE. 


drawn  from  their  own  consciousness  ?     It  is  the  lot,  not 
of  the  individual,  but  of  man  in  general,  to  feel  the  sub- 
limity of  the  mountain — the  loveliness  of  the  flower — the 
awe  of  devotion — and  the  ecstacy  of  love  ;  and  we  should 
bless  those  who  truly  set  forth  the  traits  and  triumphs  of 
our  nature — the  consolations  and  anguish  of  our  human 
life.     We  are  thus  assured  of  the  universality  of  Nature's 
laws — of  the  sympathy  of  all  genuine  hearts.     Something 
of  a  new  dignity  invests  the  existence,  whose  common 
experience  is  susceptible   of  such  portraiture.     In  the 
keen  regrets,  the  vivid  enjoyments,  the  agonizing  remorse 
and  the  glowing  aspirations  recorded  by  the  poet,  we  find 
the  truest  reflection  of  our  own  souls.     There  is  a  noble- 
ness   in  the  lineaments  thus  displayed,  which  we  can 
scarcely  trace  in  the  bustle  and  strife  of  the  world.     Self- 
respect  is  nourished  by  such  poetry,  and  the  hope  of  im- 
mortality rekindled  at  the  inmost  shrine  of  the  heart.     Of 
recent  poets,  Coleridge  has  chiefly  added  to  such  obliga- 
tions.     He  has  directed  our  gaze  to  Mont  Blanc  as  to  an 
everlasting  altar  of  praise ;  and  kindled  a  perennial  flame 
of  devotion  amid  the  snows  of  its  cloudy  summit.     He 
has  made  the  icy  pillars  of  the  Alps  ring  with  solemn  an- 
thems. The  pilgrim  to^he  Vale  of  Chamouni  shall  not  here- 
after  want  a  Hymn  by  which  his  admiring  soul  may 
"wreak  itself  upon  expression." 

Rise,  O,  ever  rise, 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  ihe  earth  ! 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 

Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 

Great  hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky. 


COLERIDGE.  303 

And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  and  her  thousand  voices  praises  God. 

To  one  other  want  of  the  heart  has  the  muse  of  Cole- 
ridge given  genuine  expression.  Fasliion,  selfishness, 
and  the  mercenary  spirit  of  the  age,  have  widely  and  deep- 
\y  profaned  the  very  name  of  Love.  To  poetry  it  flies  as  to 
an  ark  of  safety.  The  English  bard  has  set  apart  and 
consecrated  a  spot  sacred  to  its  meditation — *  midway  on 
the  mount,'  '  beside  the  ruined  tower ;'  and  thither  may 
we  repair  to  cool  the  eye  fevered  with  the  glare  of  art, 
by  gazing  on  the  fresh  verdure  of  nature,  when 

The  moonshine  stealing  o'er  the  scene 

Has  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve, 
And  she  is  there,  our  hope,  our  joy. 

Our  own  dear  Genevieve. 


MRS.    H  E  M  A  N  S. 


We  have  heard  much  of  late  regarding  the  rights  and 
sphere  of  woman.  The  topic  has  become  trite.  One 
branch  of  the  discussion,  however,  is  worthy  of  careful 
notice — the  true  theory  of  cultivated  and  liberal  men  on  the 
subject.  This  has  been  greatly  misunderstood.  The 
idea  has  been  often  suggested  that  man  is  jealous  of  his 
alleged  intellectual  superiority,  while  little  has  been  ad- 
vanced in  illustration  of  his  genuine  reverence  for  female 
character.  Because  the  other  sex  cannot  always  find  eru- 
dition so  attractive  as  grace  in  woman,  and  strong  men- 
tal traits  so  captivating  as  a  beautiful  disposition,  it  is 
absurdly  argued  that  mind  and  learning  are  only  honored 
in  masculine  attire.  The  truth  is,  men  of  feeling  in- 
stinctively recognize  something  higher  than  intellect. 
They  feel  that  a  noble  and  true  soul  is  greater  and  more 
delightful  than  mere  reason,  however  powerful ;  and 
they  know  that  to  this,  extensive  knowledge  and  active  logi- 
cal powers  are  not  essential.  It  is  not  the  attainments, 
or  the  literary  talent,  that  they  would  have  women  abjure. 
They  only  pray  that  through  and  above  these  may  appear 


MRS.    HEMANS.  305 

the  woman.  They  desire  that  the  harmony  of  nature  may 
not  be  disturbed  ;  that  the  essential  foundations  of  love 
may  not  be  invaded  ;  that  the  sensibility,  delicacy  and 
quiet  enthusiasm  of  the  female  heart  may  continue  to  awa- 
ken  in  man  the  tender  reverence,  which  is  one  of  the  most 
elevating  of  his  sentiments. 

Portia  is  highly  intellectual ;  but  even  while  arrayed 
in  male  costume  and  enacting  the  public  advocate,  the 
essential  and  captivating  characteristics  of  her  true  sex 
inspire  her  mien  and  language.  Vittoria  Colonna  was 
one  of  the  most  gifted  spirits  of  her  age— the  favorite 
companion  of  Michael  Angelo,  but  her  life  and  works 
were  but  the  eloquent  development  of  exalted  womanhood. 
Madame  Roland  displayed  a  strength  of  character  singu- 
larly heroic,  but  her  brave  dignity  was  perfectly  feminine. 
Isabella  of  Spain  gave  evidence  of  a  mind  remarkably 
comprehensive,  and  a  rare  degree  of  judgment ;  yet  in 
perusing  her  history,  we  are  never  beguiled  from  the  feeling 
of  her  queenly  character.  There  is  an  essential  quality 
of  sex,  to  be  felt  rather  than  described,  and  it  is  when  this 
is  marred,  that  a  feeling  of  disappointment  is  the  conse- 
quence. It  is  as  if  we  should  find  violets  growing  on  a 
tall  tree.  The  triumphs  of  mind  always  command  respect, 
but  their  style  and  trophies  have  diverse  complexions  in 
the  two  sexes.  It  is  only  when  these  distinctions  are 
lost,  that  they  fail  to  interest.  It  matters  not  how  erudite 
or  mentally  gifted  a  woman  may  be,  so  that  she  remains 
in  manner  and  feeling  a  woman.  Such  is  the  idea  that 
man  loves  to  see  realized ;  and  in  cherishing  it,  he  gives 
the  highest  proof  of  his  estimation  of  woman.  He  de- 
26* 


306  MRS.  HEMANS. 

lights  to  witness  the  exercise  of  her  noblest  prerogative; 
He  is  charmed  to  behold  her  in  the  most  effective  attitude. 
He  appreciates  too  truly  the  beauty  and  power  of  her  na- 
ture to  wish  to  see  it  arrayed  in  any  but  a  becoming  dress; 
There  is  such  a  thing  as  female  science,  philosophy  and 
poetry,  as  there  is  female  physiognomy  and  taste  ;  not 
that  their  absolute  qualities  differ  in  the  two  sexes,  but 
their  relative  aspect  is  distinct.  Their  sphere  is  as  large 
and  high,  and  infinitely  more  <3elicate  and  deep  than  that 
of  man,  though  not  so  obvious.  When  they  overstep  their 
appropriate  domain,  much  of  their  mentul  influence  is  lost. 
Freely  and  purely  exerted,  it  is  at  once  recognized  and 
loved.  Man  delights  to  meet  woman  in  the  field  of  let- 
ters  as  well  as  in  the  arena  of  social  life.  There  also  is 
she  his  better  angel.  With  exquisite  satisfaction  be  learns 
at  her  feet  the  lessons  of  mental  refinement  and  moral 
sensibility.  From  her  teachings  he  catches  a  grace  and 
sentiment  unwritten  by  his  own  sex.  Especially  iu 
poetry,  beams,  with  starlike  beauty,  the  li^ht  of  her  soul. 
There  he  reads  the  records  of  a  woman's  heart.  He  hears 
from  her  own  lips  how  the  charms  of  nature  and  the 
mysteries  of  life  have  wrought  in  her  bosom.  Of  such 
women,  Mrs.  Hemans  is  the  most  cherished  of  our  day. 
Life  is  the  prime  source  of  literature,  and  especially  of 
its  most  effective  and  universal  departments.  Poetry 
should  therefore  be  the  offs-pring  of  deep  experience. 
Otherwise  it  is  superficial  and  temporary.  What  phase 
x)f  existence  is  chiefly  revealed  to  woman  ?  Which  do- 
main of  experience  is  she  best  fitted  by  her  nature  and 
position  to  illustrate?     Undoubtedly,   the  influence   and 


r 


MRS.    HEMANS.  307 

power  of  the  affections.  In  these  her  destiny  is  more 
completely  involved,  through  these  her  mind  more  exclu. 
sively  acts,  than  is  the  case  with  our  sex.  Accordingly, 
her  insight  is  greater,  and  her  interest  more  extensive  in 
the  sphere  of  the  heart.  With  a  quicker  sympathy,  and  a 
finer  perception,  will  she  enter  into  the  history  and  re- 
sults of  the  affections.  Accordingly,  when  the  mantle  of 
song  falls  upon  a  woman,  we  cannot  but  look  for  new 
revelations  of  sentiment.  Not  that  the  charms  of  nature 
and  the  majesty  of  great  events  may  not  appropriately  at- 
tract .her  muse ;  but  with  and  around  these,  if  she  is  a 
true  poetess,  we  see  ever  entwined  the  delicate  flowers 
that  flourish  in  the  atmosphere  of  home,  and  are  reared  to 
full  maturity  only  under  ihe  training  of  woman.  Thus 
the  poetic  in  her  character  finds  free  development.  She 
can  here  speak  with  authority.  It  is,  indeed,  irreverent 
to  dictate  to  genius,  but  the  themes  of  female  poetry  are 
written  in  the  very  structure  of  the  soul.  Political  econ- 
omy  may  find  devotees  among  the  gentler  sex  ;  and  so  an 
approach  to  the  mental  hardihood  of  Lady  Macbeth  may 
appear  once  in  the  course  of  an  age  ;  whereas,  every  year 
we  light  on  the  traces  of  a  Juliet,  a  Cleopatra  and  an  Isa- 
bel. The  spirit  of  Mrs.  Hemans  in  all  she  has  written, 
is  essentially  feminine.  Various  as  are  her  subjects, 
they  are  stamped  with  the  same  image  and  superscription. 
She  has  drawn  her  prevailing  vein  of  feeling  from  one 
source.  She  has  thrown  over  all  her  effusions,  not  so 
much  the  drapery  of  knowledge,  or  the  light  of  extensive 
observation,  as  the  warm  and  shifting  hues  of  the  heart. 
These  she^  had  at  command.      She  knew   their  effects, 


308  MRS.    HEMANS. 

and  felt  their  mystery.  Hence  the  lavish  confidence  with 
which  she  devoted  them  to  the  creations  of  fancy  and  the 
illustration  of  truth. 

From  the  voice  of  her  own  consciousness,  Mrs.  He- 
mans  realized  what  a  capacity  of  joy  and  sorrow,  of 
strength  and  weakness,  exists  in  the  human  heart.  This 
she  made  it  her  study  to  unfold.  The  Restoration  of  the 
Works  of  Art  to  Italy  is,  as  Byron  said  when  it  appeared, 
a  very  good  poem.  It  is  a  fine  specimen  of  heroic  verse. 
The  subject  is  treated  with  judgment  and  ability,  and  the 
spirit  which  pervades  the  work  is  precisely  what  the  occa- 
sion demanded.  Still  we  feel  that  any  cultivated  and 
ideal  mind  might  have  produced  the  poem.  There  are  no 
peculiar  traits,  no  strikingly  original  conceptions.  The 
same  may  be  said  of  several  of  the  long  pieces.  It  is  in 
the  Songs  of  the  Affections  and  the  Records  of  Woman 
that  the  poetess  is  preeminently  excellent.  Here  the  field 
is  emphatically  her  own.  She  ranges  it  with  a  free  step 
and  a  queenly  bearing ;  and  everywhere  rich  flowers 
spring  up  in  her  path,  and  a  glowing  atmosphere,  like 
the  rosy  twilight  of  her  ancestral  land,  enlivens  and  illu- 
mines her  progress.  In  these  mysterious  ties  of  love, 
tkere  is  to  her  a  world  of  poetry.  She  not  only  celebrates 
their  strength  and  mourns  their  fragility,  but  with  pensive 
ardor  dwells  on  their  eternal  destiny.  The  birth,  the 
growth,  the  decline,  the  sacrifices,  the  whole  morality  and 
spirituality  of  human  love,  is  recognized  and  proclaimed 
by  her  muse.  Profoundly  does  she  feci  the  richness  and 
the  sadness,  the  glory  and  the  gloom,  involved  in  the 
affections.     She  thinks  it 


I 


MRS.    HEMANS.  309^ 

A  fearful  thing  that  love  and  death  may  dwell 
In  the  same  world  ! 

And  reverently  she  declares  that 

He  that  sits  above 
In  his  calm  glory,  will  forgive  the  love 
His  creatures  bear  each  other,  even  if  blent 
With  a  vain  worship  ;  for  its  close  is  dim 
Ever  with  grief,  which  leads  the  wrung  soul  back  to  Him. 

Devotion  continually  blends  with  and  exalts  her  views 
of  human  sentiment: 

I  know,  I  know  our  love 
Shall  yet  call  gentle  angels  from  above, 
By  its  undying  fervor. 

Oh  !  we  have  need  of  patient  faith  below, 
To  clear  away  the  mysteries  of  wo  1 

Bereavement  has  found  in  Mrs.  Hemaus  a  worthy  re- 
corder of  its  deep  and  touching  poetry  : 

But,  oh  !  sweet  Friend  !  we  dream  not  of  love's  might 
Till  Death  has  robed  w  ith  soft  and  solemn  hght 
The  image  we  en-hrine  I — Befor.^  thai  hour, 
We  have  but  glimpses  of  the  o'ermastering  power 
Within  us  laid  ! — then  doth  the  spirit-flame 
With  sword-like  lightning  rend  its  mortal  frame  ; 
The  wings  of  that  which  pants  to  follow  fast, 
Shake  their  clay  bars,  as  with  a  prisoned  blast, — 
The  sea  is  in  our  souls  ! 

*  *  *  * 

J  But  thou  !  whose  thoughts  have  no  blest  home  above, 

Captive  of  earth  !  and  canst  thou  dare  to  lofve  7 
To  nurse  such  feehngs  as  delight  to  rest 
Within  that  hallowed  shrine  a  parent's  breast  ? 
To  fii  each  hope,  concentrate  every  tie,^ 


3i0  MRS.    HEMANS. 

On  one  frail  idol, — destined  but  to  die  ? 

Yet  mock  the  faith  that  points  to  worlds  of  light, 

Where  severed  souls,  made  perfect,  re-unite  ? 

Then  tremble  !  cling  to  every  passing  joy 

Twined  with  the  Ufe  a  moment  may  destwy  ! 

If  there  be  sorrow  in  a  parting  tear. 

Still  let  *■'■  forever'''  vibrate  on  thine  ear  ! 

If  some  bright  hour  on  rapture's  wind  hath  flown, 

Find  more  than  anguish  in  the  thought — 'tis  gone  ; 

Go  !  to  a  voice  such  magic  influence  give. 

Thou  canst  not  lose  its  melody  and  hve  ; 

And  make  an  eye  the  lode-star  of  thy  soul. 

And  let  a  glance  the  springs  of  thought  control ; 

Gaze  on  a  mortal  form  with  fond  delight, 

Till  the  fair  vision  mingles  with  thy  sight ; 

There  seek  thy  blessings,  there  repose  thy  trust. 

Lean  on  the  willow,  idohze  the  dust ! 

Then  when  thy  treasure  best  repays  thy  care. 

Think  on  that  dread  ^^  forever^'''  and  despair. 

The  distinguishing  attribute  of  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  He- 
mans  is  sentiment.  She  sings  fervently  of  the  King  of 
Arragon^  musing  upon  his  slain  brother,  in  the  midst  of  a 
victorious  festival, — of  the  brave  boy  perishing  at  the  bat- 
tle of  the  Nile,  at  the  post  assigned  him  by  his  father, — 
of  Del  Carpio,  upbraiding  the  treacherous  king  : — 

"  Into  these  glassy  eyes  put  light, — be  still !  keep  down  thine  ire, — 

Bid  these  white  lips  a  blessing  speak,  this  earth  is  not  my  sire  ! 

Give  me  back  him  for  whom  I  strove,  for  whom  my  blood  was  shed, — 

Thou  canst  not — and  a  king  ? — His  dust  be  mountains  on  thy  head  I" 

He  loosed  the  steed  ;  his  slack  hand  fell, — upon  the  silent  face 

He  cast  one  long,  deep,  troubled  look, — then  turned  from  that  sad  place. 

His  hope  was  crushed,  his  after-fate  untold  in  martial  strain, — 

His  banner  led  the  spears  no  more  amidst  the  hills  of  Spain. 

With  how  true  a  sympathy  does  she  trace  the  prison 


I 


MRS.    HEMANS.  311 

musings  of  Arabella  Stuart,  portray  the  strife  of  the  heart 
in  the  Greek  bride,  and  the  fidelity  of  woman  in  the  wife 
soothing  her  husband's  dying  agonies  on  the  wheel ! 
"WTiat  a  pathetic  charm  breathes  in  the  pleadings  of  the 
Adopted  Child,  and  the  meeting  of  Tasso  and  his  Sister. 
How  well  she  understood  the  hopelessness  of  ideal  love  ! 

O  ask  not,  hope  thou  not  too  much 

Of  sympathy  below — 
Few  are  the  hearts  whence  one  same  touch 

Bid  the  sweet  fountains. flow  : 
Few  and  by  still  conflicting  powers 

Forbidden  here  to  meet — 
Such  ties  would  make  this  world  of  ours 

Too  fair  for  aught  so  fleet. 

Nor  is  it  alone  in  mere  sensibility  that  the  poetess  ex- 
cels. The  loftiness  and  the  dignity  of  her  sex  has  few 
nobler  interpreters.  What  can  be  finer  in  its  kind  than 
the  Swiss  wife's  appeal  to  her  husband's  patriotism? 
Her  poems  abound  in  the  worthiest  appeals  to  woman's 
faith  : 

Her  lot  is  on  you — silent  tears  to  weep, 
And  patient  smiles  to  wear  through  suffering's  hour, 

Andsuraless  riches  from  Affection's  deep, 
To  pour  on  broken  reeds — a  wasted  shower! 

And  to  make  idols,  and  to  find  them  clay. 

And  to  bewail  their  worship — therefore  pray  ! 

To  depict  the  parting  grief  of  the  Hebrew  mother,  the 
repentant  tears  of  Cceur  de  Lion  at  his  father's  bier,  the 
home- associations  of  the  Eastern  stranger  at  the  sight  of 
a  palm-tree — these,  and  such  as  these,  were  congenial 
themes  to  Mrs.  Hemaus.     Joyous  as  is  her  welcome  to 


312  MSS.    UEMANS. 

Spring,  thoughts  of  the  departed  solemnize  its  beauty. 
She  invokes  the  Ocean  not  for  its  gems  and  buried  gold, 
but  for  the  true  and  brave  that  sleep  in  its  bosom.  The 
bleak  arrival  of  the  New  England  Pilgrims,  and  the  eve- 
ning devotion  of  the  Italian  peasant-girl,  are  equally  con- 
secrated by  her  muse.  Where  there  is  profound  love,  ex- 
alted patriotism,  or  "  a  faith  touching  all  things  with  hues 
of  Heaven,"  there  she  rejoiced  to  expatiate.  Fair  as  Ely- 
sium appeared  to  her  fancy,  she  celebrates  its  splendor 
only  to  reproach  its  rejection  of  the  lowly  and  the  loved  : 

For  the  most  loved  are  they, 
Of  whom  Fame  speaks  not  with  h  er  clarion  voice 
In  regal  halls  !  the  shades  o'erhnng  their  way. 
The  vale  with  its  deep  fountain  is  their  choice, 

And  gentle  hearts  rejoice 
Around  their  steps  !   till  silently  they  die. 
As  a  stream  shrinks  from  summers  burning  eye. 

And  the  world  knows  not  then, 
Not  then,  nor  ever,  what  pure  thoughts  are  fled ! 
Yet  these  are  they  that  on  the  souls  of  men 
Come  back,  when  night  her  folding  veil  hath  spread. 

The  long  remembered  dead  ! 
But  not  with  thee  might  aught  save  glory  dwell — 
Fade,  fade  away,  thou  shore  of  Asphodel ! 

It  was  the  opinion  of  Dr.  Spurzheim,  an  accurate  and 
benevolent  observer  of  life,  that  suffering  was  essential  to 
the  rich  development  of  female  character.  It  is  interest- 
ing to  trace  the  influence  of  disappointment  and  trial  in 
deepening  and  exalting  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Hemans. 
From  the  sentimental  character  of  her  muse,  results  the 
sameness  of  which  some  readers  complain  in  perusing  her 


MRS.    HEMANS.  313 

works.  This  apparent  monotony  only  strikes  us  when 
we  attempt  to  read  them  consecutively.  But  such  is  not  the 
manner  in  which  we  should  treat  a  poetess  who  so  exclu- 
sively addresses  our  feelings.  Like  Petrarch's  sonnets, 
her  productions  delight  most  when  separately  enjoyed. 
Her  careful  study  of  poetry  as  an  art,  and  her  truly  con- 
scientious care  in  choosing  her  language  and  forming  her 
verse,  could  not,^even  if  it  were  desirable,  prevent  the 
formation  of  a  certain  style.  It  is  obvious,  also,  that 
her  efforts  are  unequal.  The  gems,  however,  are  more 
profusely  scattered,  than  through  the  same  amount  of  wri- 
ting by  almost  any  other  modern  poet.  The  department 
of  her  muse  was  a  high  and  sacred  one.  The  path  she 
pursued  was  one  especially  heroic,  inasmuch  as  her  efforts 
imply  the  exertion  of  great  enthusiasm.  Such  lyrics  as 
we  admire  in  her  pages  are  ''fresh  from  the  fount  of  feel- 
ing." They  have  stirred  the  blood  of  thousands.  They 
have  kindled  innumerable  hearts  on  both  sides  of  the 
sea.  They  have  strewn  imperishable  flowers  around  the 
homes  and  graves  of  two  nations.  They  lift  the 
thoughts,  like  an  organ's  peal,  to  a  <'  better  land,"  and 
quicken  the  purest  sympathies  of  the  soul  into  a  truer  life 
and  more  poetic  beauty. 

The  taste  of  Mrs.  Hemans  was  singularly  elegant. 
She  delighted  in  the  gorgeous  and  imposing.  There  is 
a  remarkable  fondness  for  splendid  combination,  warlike 
pomp  and  knightly  pageantry  betrayed  in  her  writings. 
Her  fancy  seems  bathed  in  a  Southern  atmosphere.  We 
trace  her  Italian  descent  in  the  very  flow  and  imagery  of 
her  verse.  There  is  far  less  of  Saxon  boldness  of  design 
27 


314  MRS.    HEMANS. 

and  simplicity  of  outline,  than  of  the  rich  coloring  and 
luxuriant  grouping  of  a  warmer  clime.  Akin  to  this 
trait  was  her  passion  for  Art.  She  used  to  say  that  Music 
was  part  of  her  life.  In  fact,  the  mind  of  the  poetess  was 
essentially  romantic.  Her  muse  was  not  so  easily  awa- 
kened by  the  sight  of  a  beautiful  object,  as  by  the  records 
of  noble  adventure.  Her  interest  was  chiefly  excited  by 
the  brave  and  touching  in  human  experience.  Nature  at- 
tracted her  rather  from  its  associations  with  God  and  hu- 
manity, than  on  account  of  its  abstract  and  absolute  qual- 
ities. This  forms  the  great  distinction  between  her  poetry 
and  that  of  Wordsworth.  In  the  midst  of  the  fine 
scenery  of  Wales,  her  infant  faculties  unfolded.  There 
began  her  acquaintance  with  life  and  books.  We  are  told 
of  her  great  facility  in  acquiring  languages,  her  relish  of 
Shakspeare  at  the  age  of  six,  and  her  extraordinary  paemo- 
ry.  It  is  not  difficult  to  understand  how  her  ardent  feel- 
ings and  rich  imagination  developed,  with  peculiar  indivi- 
duality, under  such  circumstances.  Knightly  legends, 
tales  of  martial  enterprize — the  poetry  of  courage  and  de- 
votion, fascinated  her  from  the  first.  But  when  her  deep- 
er feelings  were  called  into  play,  and  the  latent  sensibil- 
ities of  her  nature  sprung  to  conscious  action,  much  of 
this  native  romance  was  transferred  to  the  scenes  of  real 
life,  and  the  struggles  of  the  heart. 

The  earlier  and  most  elaborate  of  her  poems  are,  in  a 
great  measure,  experimental.  It  seems  as  if  a  casual 
fancy  for  the  poetic  art  gradually  matured  into  a  devoted 
love.  Mrs,  Hemans  drew  her  power  less  from  preception 
than  sympathy.     Enthusiasm,  rather  than  graphic  talent, 


r 


MRS.    HEMANS.  315 

is  displayed  in  her  verse.  We  shall  look  in  vain  for 
any  remarkable  pictures  of  the  outward  world.  Her  great 
aim  was  not  so  much  to  describe  as  to  move.  We  dis- 
cover few  scenes  drawn  by  her  pen,  which  strike  us  as 
wonderfully  true  to  physical  fact.  She  does  not  make  us 
see  so  much  as  feel.  Compared  with  most  great  poets, 
she  saw  but  little  of  the  world.  The  greater  part  of  her 
life  was  passed  in  retirement.  Her  knowledge  of  distant 
lands  was  derived  from  books.  Hence  she  makes  little 
pretension  to  the  poetry  of  observation.  Sketches  copied 
directly  from  the  visible  universe  are  rarely  encountered 
in  her  works.  For  such  portraiture  her  mind  was  not 
remarkably  adapted.  There  was  another  process  far 
more  congenial  to  her — the  personation  of  feeling.  She 
loved  to  sing  of  inciting  events,  to  contemplate  her  race 
in  an  heroic  attitude,  to  explore  the  depths  of  the  soul,  and 
amid  the  shadows  of  despair  and  the  tumult  of  passion, 
point  out  some  element  of  love  or  faith  unquenched  by 
the  storm.  Her  strength  lay  in  earnestness  of  soul. 
Her'best  verses  glow  with  emotion.  When  once  truly  in- 
terested in  a  subject,  she  cast  over  it  such  an  air  of  feeling 
that  our  sympathies  are  won  at  once.  We  cannot  but 
catch  the  same  vivid  impression  ;  and  if  we  draw  from 
her  pages  no  great  number  of  definite  images,  we  cannot 
but  imbibe  what  is  more  valuable — the  warmth  and  the 
life  of  pure,  lofty  and  earnest  sentiment- 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB.* 


In  adding  our  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Lamb,  we  are 
conscious  of  personal  associations  of  peculiar  and  touch- 
ing interest.  We  recall  the  many  listless  hours  he  has 
beguiled  ;  and  the  very  remembrance  of  happy  moments 
induced  by  his  quiet  humor,  and  pleasing  reveries  inspired 
by  his  quaint  descriptions  and  inimitable  pathos,  is  re- 
freshing to  our  minds.  It  is  difficult  to  realise  that  these 
feelings  have  reference  to  an  individual  whose  countenance 
we  never  beheld,  and  the  tones  of  whose  voice  never  fell 
upon  our  ear.  Frequent  and  noted  instances  there  are 
in  the  annals  of  literature,  of  attempts,  on  the  part  of  au- 
thors, to  introduce  themselves  to  the  intimate  acquaintance 
of  their  readers.  In  portraying  their  own  characters  iu 
those  of  their  heroes,  in  imparting  the  history  of  their 
lives  in  the  form  of  an  epic  poem,  a  popular  novel,  or 
through  the  more  direct  medium  of  a  professed  autobiogra- 
phy, writers  have  aiined  at  a  striking  presentation  of 
themselves.  The  success  of  such  attempts  is,  in  general, 
very  limited.     Like  letters  of  introduction,  they  indeed, 

*  From  the  American  Quarterly,  Review. 


CHAEA.CTERISTICS    OP   LAMB.  317 

prove  passports  to  the  acquaintance,  but  not  necessarily 
to  the  friendship  of  those  to  whom  they  are  addressed. 
At  best,  they  ordinarily  afford  us  an  insight  into  the  mind 
of  the  author^  but  seldom  render  us  familiar  and  at  home 
with  the  man,  Charles  Lamb,  on  the  contrary, — if  our 
own  experience  does  not  deceive  us — has  brought  himself 
singularly  near  those  who  have  once  heartily  entered  into 
the  spirit  of  his  lucubrations.  We  seem  to  know  his 
history,  as  if  it  were  that  of  our  brother,  or  earliest  friend. 
The  beautiful  fidelity  of  his  first  love,  the  monotony  of 
his  long  clerkship,  and  the  strange  feeling  of  leisure  suc- 
ceeding its  renunciation,  the  excitement  of  his  "  first 
play,"  the  zest  of  his  reading,  the  musings  of  his  daily 
walk,  and  the  quietude  of  his  fireside,  appear  like  visions 
of  actual  memory.  His  image,  now  bent  over  a  huge 
ledger,  in  a  dusky  compting-house,  and  now  threading  the 
thoroughfares  of  London,  with  an  air  of  abstradlion,  from 
which  nothing  recalls  him  but  the  outstretched  hand  of 
a  little  sweep,  an  inviting  row  of  worm-eaten  volumes  upon 
an  old  book  stall,  or  the  gaunt  figure  of  a  venerable  beggar  ; 
and  the  same  form  sauntering  through  the  groves  about 
Oxford  in  the  vacation  solitude,  or  seated  in  a  littte  back 
study,  intent  upon  an  antiquated  folio,  appear  like  actual 
reminiscences  rather  than  pictures  of  the  fancy.  The 
face  of  his  old  school-master  is  as  some  familiar  phy- 
siognomy  ;  and  we  seem  to  have  known  Bridget  Elia 
from  infancy,  and  to  have  loved  her,  too,  notwithstan- 
ding her  one  "ugly  habit  of  reading  in  company." 
Indeed  we  can  compare  our  associations  of  Charles 
Lamb  only  to  those  which  would  naturally  attach  to  an 
27* 


318  CHARACTERISTICS    OF   LAMB. 

intimate  neighbor  with  whom  we  had,  for  years,  cultivated 
habits  of  delightful  intercourse, — stepping  over  his 
threshold,  to  hold  sweet  commune,  whenever  weariness 
was  upon  our  spirits,  and  we  desired  cheering  and  amiable 
companionship.  And  when  death  actually  justified  the 
title  affixed  to  his  most  recent  papers — which  we  had 
fondly  regarded  merely  as  an  additional  evidence  of  his 
unique  method  of  dealing  with  his  fellow  beings, — when 
they  really  proved  the  last  essays  of  Elia,  we  could  unaf- 
fectedly apply  to  him  the  touching  language,  with  which  an 
admired  poet  hashallowed  thememory  of  a  brother  bard  ; — 

"  Green  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days, 
None  knew  thee,  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  thee,  but  to  praise." 

And  were  it  only  for  the  peculiar  species  of  fame  which 
Lamb's  contributions  to  the  light  literature  of  his  country 
have  obtained  him, — were  it  only  for  the  valuable  lesson 
involved  in  this  tributary  heritage, — in  the  method  by 
which  it  was  won, — in  the  example  with  which  it  is  asso- 
ciated, there  would  remain  ample  cause  for  congratulation 
among  thereat  friends  of  human  improvement;  there 
would  be  sufficient  reason  to  remember,  gratefully  and 
long,  the  gifted  and  amiable  essayist.  Instead  of  the  fever- 
ish passion  for  reputation,  which  renders  the  existence  of 
the  majority  of  professed  literateurs  of  the  present  day,  a 
wearing  and  anxious  trial,  better  becoming  the  dust  and 
heat  of  the  arena,  than  the  peaceful  shades  of  the  academy, 
a  calm  and  self-reposing  spirit  pervades  and  characterises 
the  writings  of  Lamb.     They  are  obviously  the  offspring 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB.  319 

of  thoughtful  leisure  ;  they  are  redolent  of  the  otium  ;  and 
in  this  consists  their  peculiar  charm.  We  are  disposed  to 
value  this  characteristic  highly,  at  a  time  which  abounds,. 
as  does  our  age,  with  a  profusion  of  forced  and  elaborate 
writings.  It  is  truly  delightful  to  encounter  a  work,  how- 
ever limited  iu  design  and  unpretending  in  execution, 
which  revives  the  legitimate  idea  of  literature, — which 
makes  us  feel  that  it  is  as  essentially  spontaneous  as  the 
process  of  vegatation,  and  is  only  true  to  its  source  and 
its  object,  when  instinct  with  freshness  and  freedom.  No 
mind,  restlessly  urged  by  a  morbid  appetite  for  literary 
fame,  or  disciplined  to  a  mechanical  development  of 
thought,  could  have  originated  the  attractive  essays  we  are 
considering.  They  indicate  quite  a  different  parentage. 
A  lovely  spirit  of  contentment,  a  steadfast  determination 
towards  a  generous  culture  of  the  soul,  breathes  through 
these  mental  emanations.  Imaginative  enjoyment, — the 
boon  with  which  the  Creator  has  permitted  man  to  melio- 
rate the  trying  circumstances  of  his  lot,  is  evidently  the 
great  recreation  of  the  author,  and  to  this  he  would  intro- 
duce his  leaders.  It  is  interesting  to  feel,  that  among  the 
many  accomplished  men,  whom  necessity  or  ambition  in- 
clines to  the  pursuit  of  literature,  there  are  those  who  find 
the  time  and  possess  the  will  to  do  something  like  justice 
to  their  own  minds.  Literary  biography  is  little  else  than 
a  history  of  martyrdoms.  We  often  rise  from  the  perusal 
of  a  great  man's  life,  whose  sphere  was  the  field  of  letters, 
with  diminished  faith  in  the  good  he  successfully  pursued. 
The  story  of  disappointed  hopes>  ruined  health,  and  a  life  in 
no  small  degree  isolated  from  social  pleasure  and  the  in- 


320  CHAEACTERISTICS    OF    LAME. 

citement  which  natare  affords,  can  scarcely  be  relieved  of 
its  melancholy  aspect  by  the  simple  record  of  literary 
success.  Earnestly  as  we  honor  the  principle  of  self-de- 
votion, our  sympathy  with  beings  of  a  strong  intellectual 
and  imaginative  bias  is  too  great  not  to  awaken,  above 
every  other  consideration,  a  desire  for  the  self-possessed 
and  native  exhibition  of  such  a  heaven-implanted  ten- 
dency. We  cannot  but  wish  that  natures  thus  endowed 
should  be  true  to  themselves.  We  feel  that,  in  this  way, 
they  will  eventually  prove  most  useful  to  the  world.  And 
yet  one  of  the  rarest  results  which  such  men  arrive  at,  is 
self-satisfaction  in  the  course  ihey  pursue — we  do  not  mean 
as  regards  the  success,  but  the  direction  of  their  labors. 
Sir  James  Mackintosh  continually  lamented,  in  his  diary, 
the  failure  of  his  splendid  intentions,  consoled  himself 
with  the  idea  of  additional  enterprises,  and  finally  died  with- 
out completing  his  history.  Coleridge  has  left  only,  in  a 
fragmentary  and  scattered  form,  the  philosophical  system 
he  proposed  to  develop.  Both  these  remarkable  men 
passed  intellectual  lives,  and  evolved,  in  conversation  and 
fugitive  productions,  fruits  which  are  worthy  of  a  peren- 
nial  existence  ;  yet  they  fell  so  far  short  of  their  aims,  they 
realised  so  little  of  what  they  conceived,  that  an  impres- 
sion the  most  painful  remains  upon  the  mind  that,  with 
>due  susceptibility,  contemplates  their  career.  We  find, 
therefore,  an  especial  gratification  in  turning  from  such 
instances,  to  a  far  humbler  one  indeed,  but  still  to  a  man 
of  genius,  who  richly  enjoyed  his  pleasant  and  sequester- 
ed inheritance  in  the  kingdom  of  letters,  and  whose  com- 
paratively  few  productions  bear  indubitable  testimony  to 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB.  321 

a  mind  at  ease, — a  felicitious  expansion  of  feeling,  an 
imaginative  and  yet  contented  life.  It  is  as  illustrative 
of  this,  that  the  essays  of  Elia  are  mainly  valuable. 

In  our  view,  the  form  of  these  writings  is  a  great  recom- 
mendation. We  confess  a  partiality  for  the  essay.  In  the 
literature  of  our  vernacular  tongue,  it  shines  conspicuous, 
and  is  environed  with  the  most  pleasing  associations.  To 
the  early  English  essayists  is  due  the  honor  of  the  first  and 
most  successful  endeavors  to  refine  the  language  and  man- 
ners of  their  country.  The  essays  of  Dr.  Johnson,  Gold, 
smith,  Addison,  and  Steele,  while  they  answered  a  most 
important  immediate  purpose,  still  serve  as  instructive 
disquisitions  and  excellent  illustrations  of  style.  -The  es- 
say is  to  prose  literature,  what  the  sonnet  is  to  poetry ; 
and  as  the  narrow  limits  of  the  latter  have  enclosed  some 
of  the  most  beautiful  poetic  imagery,  and  finished  expres- 
sions of  sentiment  within  the  compass  of  versified  writing, 
so  many  of  the  most  chaste  specimens  of  elegant  periods, 
and  of  animated  and  embellished  prose,  exist  in  the  form 
of  essays.  The  lively  pen  of  Montaigne,  the  splendid 
rhetoric  of  Burke,  and  the  vigorous  argument  of  John 
Foster,  have  found  equal  scope  in  essay-writing  :  and 
among  the  various  species  of  composition  at  present  in 
vogue,  how  few  can  compare  with  this  in  general  adapta- 
tion. Descriptive  sketches  and  personal  traits,  specula- 
tive suggestions  and  logical  deductions,  the  force  of  direct 
appeal,  the  various  power  of  illustration,  allusion  and 
comment,  are  equally  available  to  the  essayist.  His  es- 
say may  be  a  lay-sermon  or  a  satire,  a  criticism  or  a  re- 
verie.    "  Of  the  words  of  men,"  says  Lord  Bacon,  "  there 


322  CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB. 

is  nothing  more  sound  and  excellent  than  are  letters  ;  for 
they  are  more  natural  than  orations,  and  more  advised 
tharf  sudden  conferences."  Essays  combine  the  qualities 
here  ascribed  to  the  epistolary  composition  ;  indeed,  they 
may  justly  be  regarded  as  letters  addressed  to  the  public  ; 
embodying — in  the  delightful  style  which  characterises  the 
p-rivate  correspondence  of  cultivated  friends — views  and 
details  of  more  general  interest. 

There  is  more  reason  to  regret  the  decline  of  essay- 
writing,  from  the  fact,  that  the  forms  of  composition  now 
in  vogue,  are  so  inferior  to  it  both  in  intrinsic  excellence 
and  as  vehicles  of  thought.  There  is,  indeed,  a  class  of 
writers  whose  object  is,  professedly  and  solely,  to  amuse  ; 
or  if  a  higher  purpose  enters  into  their  design,  it  does  not 
extend  beyond  the  conveyance  of  particular  historical  in- 
formation. But  the  majority  of  prominent  authors  cher- 
ish as  to  their  great  end,  the  inculcation  of  certain  prin- 
ciples of  action,  theories  of  life,  or  views  of  humanity. 
"We  may  trace  in  the  views  of  the  most  justly  admired 
writers  of  our  own  day,  a  favorite  sentiment  or  theory  per- 
vading, more  or  less,  the  structure  of  their  several  volumes, 
and  constantly  presenting  itself  under  various  aspects, 
and  in  points  of  startling  contrast  or  thrilling  impression. 
We  honor  the  deliberate  and  faithful  presentation  of  a 
theory,  on  the  part  of  literary  men,  when  they  deem  it  es- 
sential to  the  welfare  of  their  race.  Loyalty  to  such  an 
object  bespeaks  them  worthy  of  their  high  vocation  ;  and 
we  doubt  if  an  author  can  be  permanently  useful  to  his 
fellow  beings  and  true  to  himself,  without  such  a  light 
to  guide,  and  such  an  aim  to  inspire.     Dogmatical  ac- 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB.  323 

tachment  to  mere  opinion  is  doubtless  opposed  to  true 
progression  in  thought,  but  fidelity  in  the  development 
and  vivid  portraiture  of  a  sentiment  knit  into  the  well- 
being  of  man,  and  coincident  with  his  destiny,  is  among 
the  most  obvious  of  literary  obligations.  Something  of 
chivalric  interest  is  attached  to  ♦'  Sidney's  Defence  of 
Poesy  ;"  the  anxiety  for  the  reform  of  conventional  cus- 
*oms  and  modes  of  thinking  in  society,  so  constantly 
evinced  in  the  pages  of  the  Spectator,  commands  our 
sympathy  and  respect ;  and  we  think  the  candid  objector 
to  Wordsworth's  view  of  his  divine  art,  cannot  but  honor 
the  steadiness  with  which  he  has  adhered  to,  and  unfold- 
ed it.  Admitting,  then,  the  dignity  of  such  literary 
ends, — the  manner  in  which  they  can  be  most  effectually 
accomplished,  must  often  be  a  subject  of  serious  considera- 
tion. 

It  is  generally  taken  for  granted,  that  the  public  will 
give  ear  to  no  teacher  who  cannot  adroitly  practise  the  ex. 
pedient  so  beautifully  illustrated  by  Tasso,  in  the  simile  of 
the  chalice  of  medicine  with  a  honeyed  rim.  True  as  it 
is,  that  in  an  age  surfeited  with  books  of  every  d  escription, 
there  exists  a  kind  of  necessity  for  setting  decoys  afloat 
upon  the  stream  of  literature — is  not  the  faith  in  literary 
lures  altogether  too  perfect?  Does  the  mental  offspring 
we  have  cherished,  obtain  the  kind  of  attention  we  desire, 
when  ushered  into  the  world  arrayed  in  the  garb  of  fiction? 
The  experiment,  we  acknowledge,  succeeds  in  one  res- 
pect. The  inviting  dress  will  attract  the  eyes  of  the  mul- 
titude ;  but  how  few  will  penetrate  to  the  theory,  appre- 
ciate the  moral,  or  enter  into  the  thoughts  to  which  the 


3-24 


chaSactzpjstics  of  lams. 


fanciful  costume  is   olIv  the  drapery  and  frame-work  I 
The  truih  is,  ike  very  object  of  writers  who  would  present 
a  philosophical  problem  through  the  medium  of  a  novel,  is 
barely  recognized.     Corinna  is  still   regarded  as  a  ro- 
maiice  gm  generis.     Sereral  efforts  of  the  kind,  on  the 
port  of  living  British  writers  of  acknowledged  power,  seem 
to  have  otterij  failed  of  their  purpose,  as  far  as  the  mass  of 
readers,  whom  they  were  especiaUj  intended  to  affect,  are 
concerned.     The  plan  in  such  instances,  is  strictly  psy- 
diologicaL     Public  attention,  however,  is  at  once  riveted 
on  the  plot  and  details  ;  and  some  strong  delineation   of 
hanian  passion,  some  trivial  error  in  the  external  sketch- 
ing, some  over  intense  or  too  minute  personation  of  feel- 
ing, suffices,  we  do  not  say  how  justly,  to  condemn  the 
work  in  the  view — even  of  the  discriminating.     Now  we 
are  confident,  that  should  the  writers  in  question  choose 
die  essay  as  a  vehicle  of  communication,  their  success  in 
many  cases  would  be  more  complete.     Their  ideas  of  life, 
of  a  foreign  land,  of  modern  society,  or  of  human  destiny, 
presented  in  this  shape,  with  the  graces  of  style,  the  at- 
traction of  anecdote,  and  the  vivacity  of  wit  and  feeling, 
eoold  not  but  find  their  way  to  the  only  class  of  readers 
who  will  ever  estimate  such  labors :  those  who  read  to 
excite  thought,  as  well  as  beguile  time ;  to  gratity  an  in- 
tellectoai  taste,  as  well  as  amuse  an  ardent  fancy.     The 
novel,  too,  is  in  its  very  nature  epheTieral.     The  very 
origin  of  the  word  associates  such  productions  with  the 
gazettes  and  magazines — the  temporary  caskets  of  litera- 
tnre.     And  with  the  exception  of  Scott's,  and  a  few  ad- 
miiable  historical  romances,  novels  sef;m  among  the  mo£t 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB.  325 

frail  of  literary  tabernacles.  Now,  in  reference  to  the 
class  of  authors  to  whom  we  have  alluded,  those  who  have 
a  definite  and  important  point  in  view,  who  are  enthusias- 
tic in  behalf  of  a  particular  moral  or  mental  enterprise, 
the  evanescent  nature  of  the  popular  vehicle  is  an  impor- 
tant  consideration.  We  would  behold  a  more  permanent 
personification  of  their  systems,  a  more  lasting  testimony 
of  their  interest  in  humanity.  And  such  we  consider  the 
essay.  When  presented,  condensed,  and  embellished  in 
this  more  primitive  form,  a  fair  opportunity  will  be  afford- 
ed for  the  candid  examination  of  their  sentiments  ;  and 
we  are  persuaded  that  these  very  ideas,  thus  arranged  and 
disseminated,  will  possess  a  weight  and  an  interest  which 
they  can  never  exhibit  when  displayed  in  the  elaborate 
and  desultory  manner  incident  to  popular  fiction.  An 
interesting  illustration  of  these  remarks  may  be  found  in 
the  circumstance  that  many  intelligent  men,  who  are  quite 
inimical  to  Buhver,  as  a  novelist,  have  become  interested 
in  his  mind  by  the  perusal  of  "  England  and  the  English," 
and  "The  Student" — works  which  are  essentially 
specimens  of  essay  writing.  The  dramatic  form  of  com- 
position has  recently  been  adopted  in  England,  to  sub- 
serve the  theoretical  purposes  ot  authors.  This,  it  must 
be  confessed,  is  a  decided  improvement  upon  the  more 
tashionable  method  ;  and  the  favor  with  which  it  has 
been  received,  is  sudiciently  indicative  of  the  readiness 
of  the  public  to  become  familiar  with  nobler  models  of 
literature. 

We  are  under  no  slight  obligations  to   Charles  Lamb, 
for  so  pleasantly  reviving  a  favorite  form  of  English  cona- 
28 


326  CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB. 

position.  We  welcome  Elia  as  the  Spectator-rec/mr«* 
It  is  interesting  to  be  amused  and  instructed  after  the 
manner  of  that  delectable  coterie  of  lay-preachers,  humor- 
ists, and  critics,  of  which  Sir  Roger  de  C overly  was  so 
distinguished  a  member.  It  is  peculiarly  agreeeble  to  be 
talked  to  in  a  book,  as  if  the  writer  addressed  himself  to 
us  particularly.  Next  to  a  long  epistle  from  an  entertain- 
ing friend,  we  love,  of  all  things  in  the  world,  a  charming 
essay ; — a  concise  array  of  ideas — an  unique  sketch,  which 
furnishes  subjects  for  an  hour's  reflection,  or  gives  rise  to 
a  succession  of  soothing  day-dreams.  Few  books  are  more 
truly  useful  than  such  as  can  be  relished  in  the  brief  in- 
tervals  of  active  or  social  life,  which  permit  immediate 
appreciation,  and,  taken  up  when  and  where  they  may  be, 
present  topics  upon  which  the  attention  can  at  once  fix 
itself,  and  trains  of  speculation  into  which  the  mind  easily 
glides.  To  such  a  work  we  suppose  a  celebrated  writer 
alludes,  in  the  phrase  "parlor  window-seat  book."  Col- 
lections of  essays  are  essentially  of  this  order.  We  would 
not  be  understood,  however,  as  intimating  that  this  kind 
of  literature  is  especially  unworthy  of  studious  regard  ; 
Bacon's  Essays  alone  would  refute  such  an  idea ;  but  from 
its  conciseness  and  singleness  of  aim,  the  essay  may 
be  enjoyed  in  a  brief  period,  and  when  the  mind  is  un- 
able to  attach  itself  to  more  elaborate  reading.  A  volume 
of  essays  subserves  the  purpose  of  a  set  of  cabinet  pic- 
tures, or  a  port  folio  of  miniature  drawings;  they  are  the 
muUum  in  parvo  of  literature  ;  and,  perused,  as  they  gen- 
erally are,  in  moments  of  respite  from  ordinary  occupa- 
tion, turned  to  on  the  spur  of  mental  appetite,  they  not 


CHARACTERISTICS    OP    LAMB.  0'27 

unfrequently  prove  more  efficient  than  belles-lettres  allure- 
ments of  greater  pretension.  It  is  seldom  that  any  de- 
sirable additions  are  made  in  this  important  department 
of  writing ;  and  among  the  contributions  of  the  present 
age,  the  essays  of  Elia  will  desewedly  hold  an  elevated 
rank. 

Much  of  the  interest  awakened  by  these  papers,  has 
been  ascribed  to  the  peculiar  phraseology  in  which  they 
are  couched.  Doubtless,  this  characteristic  has  had  its 
influence  ;  but  we  think  an  undue  importance  has  been 
given  it,  and  we  feel  that  the  true  zest  of  Elia's  manner 
is  as  spontaneous  as  his  ideas,  and  the  shape  in  which 
they  naturally  present  themselves.  If  we  analyse  his  mode 
of  expression,  we  shall  find  its  charm  consists  not  a  little 
in  the  expert  variation  rather  than  in  a  constant  mainte- 
nance of  style.  lie  understood  the  proper  time  and  place 
to  introduce  an  illustration  ;  he  knew  when  to  serve  up 
one  of  his  unequalled  strokes  of  humor,  and  when  to 
change  the  speculative  for  the  descriptive  mood.  He  had 
a  happy  way  of  blending  anecdote  and  portraiture  ;  he 
makes  us  see  the  place,  person,  or  thing,  upon  which  he 
is  dwelling  ;  and,  at  the  moment  our  interest  is  excited, 
presents  an  incident,  and  then,  while  we  are  all  attention, 
imparts  a  moral,  or  lures  us  into  a  theorising  vein.  He 
personifies  his  subject,  too,  at  the  appropriate  moment ; 
nor  idealises,  after  the  manner  of  many  essayists,  before 
the  reader  sympathises  at  all  with  the  real  picture.  Lamb's 
diction  breathes  the  spirit  of  his  favorite  school.  He 
need  not  have  told  us  of  his  partiality  for  the  old  English 
writers.     Every  page  of  Elia  bears  witness  to  his  frequent 


828  CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB. 

and  fond  communion  with  the  rich,  ancient  models  of 
British  literature.  Yet  the  coincidence  is,  in  no  degree, 
that  which  obtains  between  an  original  and  a  copyist. 
The  tinge  which  Lamb's  language  has  caught  from  intimacy 
with  the  quaint  folios  he  so  sincerely  admired,  is  a  re- 
flected hue,  like  that  which  suffuses  the  arch  of  clouds  far 
above  the  setting  sun  ;  denoting  only  the  delightful  influ- 
ence radiated  upon  the  mind  which  loves  to  dwell  devoted- 
ly upon  what  is  disappearing,  and  turns  with  a  kind  of 
religious  interest  from  the  new-born  luminaries  which  the 
multitude  worship,  to  hover  devotedly  round  the  shrine  of 
the  past.  If  any  modern  lover  of  letters  deserved 
a  heritage  in  the  sacred  garden  of  old  English  litera- 
ture, that  one  was  Charles  Lamb.  Not  only  did  he  pos- 
sess the  right  which  faithful  husbandry  yields,  but  his  dis. 
position  and  taste  rendered  him  a  companion  meet  for  the 
noble  spirits  that  have  immortalized  the  age  of  Elizabeth. 
In  truth,  he  may  be  said  to  have  been  on  more  familiar 
terms  with  Shakspeare,  than  with  the  most  intimate  of 
his  contemporaries  ;  and  it  may  be  questioned  whether  the 
Religio  Medici,  that  truly  individual  creed;  had  a  more 
devout  admirer  in  its  originator,  than  was  Elia.  He  as- 
sures us  that  he  was  '<^shy  of  facing  the  prospective,"  and 
no  antiquarian  cherished  a  deeper  reverence  for  old  china, 
or  black  letter.  Most  honestly,  therefore,  came  our 
author  by  that  charming  relish  of  olden  time,  which  some- 
times induces  in  our  minds,  as  we  read  his  lucubrations, 
a  lurking  doubt  whether,  by  some  mischance,  we  have  not 
fallen  upon  an  old  author  in  a  modern  dress. 

There  is  another  feature  in  the  style  of  these  essays,  tQ> 


CHARACTERISTICS    OP    LAMB.  329 

which  we  are  disposed  to  assign  no  inconsiderable  influ- 
ence. We  allude  to  a  certain  confessional  tone,  that  is 
peculiarly  attractive.  There  is  something  exceedingly 
gratifying  to  the  generality  of  readers  in  personalities. 
On  the  same  principle  that  we  are  well  pleased  to  become 
the  confident  of  a  friend,  and  open  our  breasts  to  receive 
the  secret  of  his  inmost  experience,  we  readily  become 
interested  in  a  writer  who  tells  us,  in  a  candid,  naive  man- 
ner, the  story  not  merely  of  his  life,  in  the  common  ac- 
ceptation  of  the  term,  but  of  his  private  opinions,  humors, 
eccentric  tastes,  and  personal  antipathies.  A  tone  of  this 
kind,  is  remarkably  characteristic  of  Lamb.  And  yet 
there  is  in  it  nothing  egotistical  ;  for  we  may  say  of  him 
as  has  been  said  of  his  illustrious  schoolfellow,  whom  he 
so  significantly,  and,  as  it  were,  prophetically,  called  ''the 
inspired  charity  boy  ;" — that  "  in  him  the  individual  is 
always  merged  in  the  abstract  and  general."  Writers 
have  not  been  slow  to  avail  themselves  of  the  advantage 
of  thus  occasionally  and  incidentally  presenting  glimpses 
of  their  private  notions  and  sentiments;  indeed,  this 
has  been  called  the  age  of  confessions ;  but  with  Elia, 
they  are  so  delicately  yet  so  familiarly  imparted,  that  they 
become  a  secret  charm  inwrought  through  the  whole  tis- 
sue of  what  he  denominates  his  "weaved  up  follies." 
There  are  passages  scattered  through  these  volumes,  which 
exemplify  the  very  perfection  of  our  language.  There 
are  successive  periods,  so  adroitly  adapted  to  the  senti- 
ment they  embody,  so  easy  and  expressive,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  so  unembellished,  that  they  suggest  a  new  idea 
of  the  capabilities  of  our  vernacular.  There  are  words, 
28* 


330  CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAME. 

too,  at  which  wc  should  pause,  if  they  were  indited  bf 
another,  to  institute  a  grave  inquiry  into  their  legitimacy, 
or,  perchance,  prefer  against  their  author  the  charge  of 
senseless  affectation.  But  with  what  we  know  of  Elia,  iu 
catching  ourselves  at  such  a  process,  we  could  not  but 
waive  the  ceremony,  and  say,  as  he  said  on  some  equally 
heartless  occasion — "  it  argues  an  insensibility." 

Another  striking  trait  of  the  Essays  of  Elia,  is  the  fami- 
liarity of  their  style.  In  this  respect  they  frequently  com- 
bine the  freedom  of  oral  with  the  more  deliberative  spirit 
of  epistolary  expression.  We  have  already  alluded  to  one 
effect  of  this  method  of  address  ;  it  annihilates  the  dis- 
tance  between  the  reader  and  the  author,  and  so  to  speak, 
brings  them  face  to  face.  Facility  in  this  kind  of  writing, 
is  one  of  the  principal  elements  iu  what  is  called  magazine 
talent.  It  consists  in  maintaining  a  conversational  tone 
while  discussing  a  topic  of  great  interest  in  a  humorous 
way,  or  making  a  light  one  the  nucleus  for  spirited,  amu- 
sing, or  instructive  ideas.  The  dearth  of  this  popular  tact 
in  this  country  and  its  fertility  in  England,  are  well  known. 
We  think  the  discrepance  can  be  accounted  for  by  refer- 
ence to  the  essential  difference  in  the  social  habits  of  the 
two  countries.  The  literary  clubs  are  the  nurseries  of 
this  attractive  talent  in  Great  Britain.  The  custom  of 
convening  for  intellectual  recreation,  favors  the  growth  of 
a  ready  expression  of  thought,  and  of  a  direct  and  inviting 
flow  of  language.  Writers  are  habituated  to  an  attractive 
style  by  being  trained  in  a  school  of  conversation.  Inti- 
mate  connection  with  the  best  minds,  not  only  informs 
and  kindles,  but  induces  vivacity  of  delivery  both  in  speech 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB.  331 

and  writing.  We  can  conceive,  for  instance,  of  no  inspi- 
ration even  to  the  colloquial  powers  of  an  intelligent  man, 
like  direct  communion  with  such  an  individual  as  Mack- 
intosh ;  and  we  can  find  no  cause  for  wonder,  that  one 
blessed  with  the  companionship  of  the  literati  of  London 
and  Edinburgh,  should  acquire  the  power  of  talking  on 
paper  in  a  delightful  and  finished  manner.  Such  society 
affords,  if  we  may  be  allowed  the  expression,  a  kind  of 
intellectual  gymnasium,  where  the  art  of  interesting  with 
the  pen  may  be,  and  naturally  is,  acquired  by  such  as  are 
endowed  with  native  wit,  and  reflective  or  graphic  ability. 
With  us  the  case  is  so  widely  different,  the  opportunities 
for  general  and  exciting  association  so  rare,  that  it  is  no 
matter  of  surprise  that  magazine  talent,  as  it  is  termed, 
should  be  of  slow  growth.  How  far  Charles  Lamb  was 
indebted  to  his  social  privileges  for  his  style,  we  are  not 
prepared  to  say.  Yet  there  are  numerous  indications  of 
the  happy  influence  of  which  we  speak,  interspersed 
through  his  commentaries  on  men  and  things.  We  refer, 
of  course,  altogether  to  the  style  ;  for  as  to  the  ideas,  they  are. 
entirely  his  own,  bearing  the  genuine  stamp  of  originality. 
It  seems  essential  to  an  efficient  light  literature,  that  those 
interested  in  its  culture  should  be  brought  into  frequent 
contact  with  each  other,  and  with  general  society.  A  poet 
who  would  evolve  representations  of  humanity  in  abstract 
forms,  who  would  present  models  beyond  and  above  his 
age,  may  indeed  find,  in  the  shades  of  retirement,  greater 
scope  and  a  less  disturbed  scene  where  in  to  rear  his  ima- 
ginary fabric  ;  and  the  philosopher  whose  aim  is  (he  ap. 
plication  of  truth  to  history,  or  the  delineation  of  some 


332  CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB. 

important  principle  in  science  or  art,  doubtless  requires 
comparative  solitude.  The  position  of  both  is  contempla- 
tive. The  fancy  of  the  one  would  plume  itself  for  flight, 
and  the  eyry  of  the  noblest  birds  is  always  among  unin- 
vaded  haunts ;  the  reflection  of  the  other  would  grapple 
with  the  abstract,  and  the  deepest  elemental  strife  of  nature 
is  ever  amid  her  lofty  cloud-retreats,  or  solitary  depths. 
But  the  writer  who  would  beguile,  amuse  or  teach  his  con- 
temporaries by  some  winning  literary  device,  who  would 
accomplish  all  these  objects  at  once,  and  "do  it  quickly," 
must  mix  with  his  fellow-creatures,  and  make  a  study  of 
the  passers-by.  He  must  hold  familiar  intercourse  with 
the  ruling  school ;  not  to  adopt  their  principles,  but  to 
become  disciplined  by  their  conversation  ;  and  he  should 
note  the  multitude  warily,  in  order  to  discover  both  the 
way  and  the  means  of  afiecting  them.  The  legitimate 
essayist  has  need  of  a  rich  vocabulary,  and  a  flexible 
manner;  a  quick  perception,  and  a  candid  address.  And 
these  equipments,  if  not  attiinable,  are  at  least  improvable, 
by  social  aids.  Conversation,  were  it  not  utterly  misun. 
derstood  and  perverted  might  prove  a  mighty  agent  in  the 
culture  of  the  noblest  of  human  powers,  and  the  sweetest 
of  human  graces.  There  was  a  beautiful  fidelity  to  nature 
in  the  habits  of  the  philosophers  of  the  Garden.  There 
are  few  pictures  so  delightful  in  ancient  history,  as  the 
noble  figure  of  a  Grecian  sage  moving  through  a  rural  re- 
sort, or  beneath  a  spacious  portico,  imparting  to  his  youth- 
ful companion  lessons  of  wisdom,  or  curbing  his  own 
advanced  mind  to  pioneer  that  of  his  less  mature  auditor 
through  the  early  mazes  of  mental  experience.    The  teem- 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB.  333 

ing  presence  of  nature  and  art  in  all  their  variety  and 
eloquence,  the  appeal  to  sympathy  lurking  in  the  very 
tones  of  wisdom,  the  mere  inspiration  of  human  presence, 
combine  to  create  an  impression  infinitely  more  vivid  than 
lonely  gleanings  among  written  lore  could  awaken.  We 
are  slow  to  comprehend  the  capabilities  of  conversation, 
or  we  should  cultivate  it  sedulously,  and  with  a  deeper 
faith.  The  single  effect  which  we  have  noticed  in  rela- 
tion to  English  literature,  is  of  itself  no  inconsiderable  ar- 
gument. If  to  social  culture  we  may  in  a  great  degree 
ascribe  the  exuberance  of  talent  for  periodical  literature  on 
the  other  side  of  the  water,  there  is  surely  no  small  induce- 
ment to  elevate  and  quicken  the  conversational  spirit  of 
our  country  ;  for  whatever  rank  be  assigned  to  this  form  of 
writing,  its  history  sufficiently  attests  the  great  influence 
it  is  capable  of  exerting,  and  the  important  purposes  it 
may  subserve.  Elia,  we  think,  gives  very  satisfactory 
indications  of  his  origin.  Without  the  local  allusions  and 
constant  references  to  native  authors,  there  is  something 
about  him  which  smacks  of  London.  Individual  as  Lamh 
is,  he  is  not  devoid  of  national  characteristics  ;  and  a  read- 
er,  well  aware  of  the  composite  influences  operative  upon 
men  of  letters  who  hail  from  the  British  metropolis,  will 
readily  discover,  though  not  informed  of  the  fact,  that 
Elia  was  blessed  with  a  score  of  honorable  friends,  who 
have  contributed  to  the  literary  fame  of  Great  Britain. 

Lamb  is  not  singular  in  his  attachment  to  minutiae  ;  it 
is  characteristic  of  the  literature  of  the  day.  In  for- 
mer times,  writers  dealt  in  the  general ;  now  they  are  de- 
voted to  the  particular.     In   almost  every  book  of  travels 


334  CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB. 

and  work  of  fiction,  we  are  entertained,  or  rather  the  at- 
tempt is  made  to  entertain  us,  with  exceedingly  detailed 
descriptions  of  the  features  of  a  landscape,  the  grouping 
in  a  picture,  or  the  several  parts  of  a  fashionable  dress. 
By  such  wearisome  nomenclature,  it  is  expected  that  an 
adequate  conception  will  be  imparted,  when  in  many 
cases,  a  single  phrase,  revealing  the  impression  made  by 
these  objects,  would  convey  more  than  a  liundred  such  in- 
ventories. Lamb,  by  virtue  of  his  nice  perception,  ren- 
ders details  more  effective  than  we  should  imagine  was 
practicable.  In  a  single  line,  we  have  the  peculiarities  of 
a  person  presented  ;  and  by  a  brief  mention  of  the  gait, 
demeanor,  or  perhaps  a  single  habit,  the  ceremony  of  in- 
troduction is  over ;  we  not  only  stand  and  look  in  the  di- 
rection we  are  desired,  but  we  see  the  object,  be  it  an  old 
bencher,  or  a  grinning  chimney  sweep  ;  an  ancient  court- 
yard, or  a  quaker  meeting ;  a  roast  pig,  or  an  old  actor  ; 
Captain  Jackson,  or  a  poor  wretch  in  the  pillory,  con- 
soling himself  by  fanciful  soliloquies.  We  have  compared 
essays,  in  their  general  uses,  to  a  set  of  cabinet  pictures. 
Elia's  are  peculiarly  susceptible  of  the  illustration.  They 
are  the  more  valuable,  inasmuch  as  the  mellow  hue  of  old 
paintings  broods  over  them;  here  and  there  a  touch  of 
beautiful  sadness,  that  reminds  us  of  Raphael ;  now  a  line 
of  penciling,  overflowing  with  nature,  which  brings  some 
favorite  Flemish  scene  to  mind  ;  and  again,  a  certain 
dreamy  softness  and  delicate  finish  that  whisper  of  Claude 
Lorraine. 

There  are  two  points  in  which  Charles  Lamb  was  emi- 
nent, where  tolerable  success  is  rare  ;  these  are  pathos  and 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB.  336 

humor.  He  understood  how  to  deal  with  the  sense  of  the 
humorous  aud  pathetic.  He  seems  to  have  been  iutui- 
tively  learned  in  the  secret  and  delicate  nature  of  these 
attributes  of  the  mind  ;  or  rather,  it  would  appear  that  his 
own  nature,  in  these  respects,  furnished  a  happy  criterion 
by  which  to  address  the  same  feelings  in  others.  We  can- 
not analyse,  however  casually,  the  humor  and  pathos  of 
Elia,  without  perceiving  that  they  are  based  on  a  discern- 
ing, and,  if  the  expression  may  be  allowed,  a  sentimental 
fellow-feeling  for  his  kind.  So  ready  aud  true  was  this 
feeling,  that  we  find  him  entering,  with  the  greatest  fa- 
cility, into  the  experience  of  human  beings  whom  the 
mass  of  society  scarcely  recognize  as  such.  He  talks  about 
a  little  chimney  sweep,  and  aged  mendicant,  or  an  old  ac- 
tor, as  if  he  had,  in  his  own  person,  given  proof  of  the 
doctrine  to  which  his  ancient  friend,  Sir  Thomas  Browne 
inclined,  and  actually,  by  a  kind  of  metempsychois,  ex- 
perienced these  several  conditions  of  life.  His  pathos 
and  humor  are,  for  the  most  part,  descriptiv'e  ;  he  appeals 
to  us,  in  an  artist-like  and  dramatic  way,  by  pictures  ;  we 
are  not  wearied  with  any  preparatory  and  woiked  up  pro. 
cess  ;  we  are  not  led  to  anticipate  the  effect.  But  our 
associations  are  skilfully  awakened  ;  an  impression  is 
unostentatiously  conveyed,  aud  a  smile  or  tear  first  leads 
us  to  inquire  into  the  nature  of  the  spell.  It  is  as  though 
in  riding  along  a  sequestered  road,  we  should  suddenly 
pass  a  beautiful  avenue,  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  garden,  a 
statue,  an  old  castle,  or  some  object  far  down  its  green 
vista,  so  interesting  that  a  reminiscence,  an  anticipation, 
or,  perchance,  a  speculative  reverie,  is  thereby  at   once 


336  CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB. 

awakened.  Endeavors  to  touch  the  feelings  or  excite 
quiet  mirth  fail,  generally,  because  the  design  is  too  ob- 
vious, or  a  strain  of  exaggf  ration  is  indu'ged  in,  fatal  to 
the  end  in  view.  Frequently,  too,  the  call  upon  our  mirth- 
ful or  compassionate  propensities  is  too  direct  and  strong. 
These  feelings  are  not  seldom  appealed  to,  as  if  they  were 
passions,  and  to  be  excited  by  passionate  means.  Indig- 
nafion,  enthusiasm,  and  all  powerful  impulses,  are  doubt- 
less to  be  roused  by  fervent  appeals  ;  but  readers  are  best 
allured  into  a  laugh,  and  it  is  by  gentle  encroachments  upon 
its  empire,  that  the  heart  is  best  moved  to  sympathy.  In 
drawing  his  pictures,  Lamb  indulged  not  in  caricature. 
It  is  his  truth,  not  less  than  his  quaintness  and  minute 
touches,  that  entertains  and  affects  us.  He  avoids,  too, 
the  vulgar  modes  of  illustration.  Not  by  description  of 
physiognomy  or  costume,  does  he  excite  our  risible  ten- 
dencies, nor  thinks  he  to  win  our  pity  by  over-drawn  state- 
ments of  the  insignia  and  privations  of  poverty.  Elia  is 
is  no  poor  mefaphysician.  He  comprehends  the  delicacy 
of  touch  required  in  the  limner  who  would  impressively 
delineate,  even  in  a  quaint  style,  any  element  or  form  of  hu- 
manity. By  what  would  almost  seem  a  casual  suggestion, 
we  often  have  a  conception  imparted  worth  scores  of  wire- 
drawn exemplifications.  Well  aware  was  our  essayist 
that  a  single  leaf  whirled  by  the  breeze  of  accident  upon 
the  soul's  clear  fountain,  would  awaken  successive  undu- 
lations of  thought.  He  was  versed  in  the  philosophy  of  as- 
sociation. He  possessed  the  susceptibility  of  an  affectionate 
nature,  and  that  fine  sense  of  the  appropriate  which  is  one 
of  the  most  valuable  of  our  insights  ;  and  accordingly,  he 


CHARACTERISnCS    OF    LAMB.  337 

caused  his  inimitable  shades  of  humor  and  pathos  "to 
faintly  mingle,  yet  distinctly  rise."  He  wishes  us  to 
realise  the  sufferings  of  poor  children,  and,  by  briefly  in. 
dicating  the  mere  tenor  of  their  street-talk,  causes  our 
hearts  to  melt  at  the  piteous  accents  of  care,  from  lips  so 
young.  He  would  vindicate  that  excellent  precept  in  the 
counsel  of  old  Polonius, — ^'  Neither  a  borrower  nor  a  lend- 
er be ;"  and  draws  such  a  full-length  portrait  of  the  former 
character,  that  when  one  of  the  species  has  once  inspect- 
ed it,  he  can  never  again  lay  the  flattering  unction  of  self- 
ignorance  to  his  heart.  He  reprimands  book-stealers  by 
describing  his  own  impoverished  shelves,  and  points  out 
the  blessings  of  existence,  by  quaintly  discussing  the 
privations  attendant  upon  its  loss.  The  anniversaries  of 
time  pass  not  by  without  their  several  merits  being  can- 
vassed by  his  pen  ;  and  although  he  tells  us  little  that  is 
absolutely  new,  he  holds  the  light  of  his  pleasant  humor  up 
to  the  faces  of  these  annual  visitants,  and  thenceforth 
their  features  possess  greater  reality  and  are  more  easily 
recognised.  Not  a  little  of  Lamb's  humor  is  shadowed 
forth  in  the  subject  of  his  essays.  Had  we  fallen  upon 
such  titles  in  the  index  of  any  other  anonymous  author, 
we  should  have  set  him  down  as  one  who,  in  straining  af- 
ter the  novel,  evidenced  a  morbid  taste  ;  but  there  is  noth- 
ing more  characteristic  of  Elia,  than  the  topics  he  selects. 
They  are  as  legitimate  as  an  undoubted  signature.  Should 
this  be  questioned,  let  the  treatment  bestowed  upon  these 
uninvestigated  themes,  be  examined.  They  will  prove 
as  well  adapted  to  their  author's  genius  as  the  life  of  the 
Scottish  peasant  was  to  Burn's  muse,  or  the  praise  of  Laura 
29 


338  CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB. 

to  Petrarch.  Who  should  have  written  the  history  of 
England,  among  the  many  who  have  tried  their  skill  in 
that  illastrious  task,  may  be  a  matter  of  doubt ;  and  to  what 
American  Scott  are  we  to  look  for  a  series  of  romances 
illustrative  of  our  history,  is  yet  a  subject  of  speculation  ; 
but  no  man,  of  ordinary  perception,  we  presume,  can  for 
a  moment  question  that  *'  The  Melancholy  of  Tailors," — 
♦'  the  Character  of  an  Undertaker," — "  the  Praise  of 
Chimney-sweepers," — the  "Inconvenience  of  being 
Hanged,"  and  sundry  kindred  subjects,  were  reserved  for 
the  pen  of  Elia. 

That  writer  is  wise  who  avails  himself  of  a  somwhat 
familiar  idea,  in  presenting  his  mental  creations  to  the 
public.  There  is  need  of  as  much  consideration  in  be- 
stowing a  name  upon  an  essay  or  a  poem,  which  we  wish 
should  be  read,  as  in  naming  a  child  whom  we  would  de- 
dicate to  fame.  The  same  reasons  for  circumspection 
obtain  in  both  cases.  The  more  original  the  appellation, 
provided  it  is  not  utterly  foreign  to  all  general  associations, 
the  better.  But  it  is  essential  that  there  should  be  some- 
thing  which  will  create  an  interest  at  a  glance.  Our 
essayist  has  been  happy  in  his  choice  of  subjects  ;  his 
wit  failed  him  not  here.  Though  no  one  has  previously 
written  the  '<  Praise  of  Chimney-sweepers,"  yet  everyone 
sees  the  dusky  urchins  daily,  and  would  fain  know  what 
can  be  said  in  their  behalf.  Most  people  have  noticed 
the  "  Melancholy  of  Tailors,"  and  are  glad  to  find  that  some 
one  has  undertaken  philosophically  to  explain  it.  The 
headings, of  all  Ella's  papers  are  exactly  such  as  would 
beguile  us  into  reading  when  we  desire  to  enter  the  region 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB.  339 

of  quiet  thought,  and  forget  our  cares  in  some  literary 
pastime.  There  is  one  element  of  genius,  the  influence 
of  which  we  have  never  seen  acknowledged,  that  ever 
impresses  our  minds  in  reflecting  on  the  themes  to  which 
gifted  men  apply  themselves.  We  allude  to  a  certain 
daring  which  induces  them  to  grapple  with  topics,  and 
give  expression  to  thoughts,  which  many  have  mused  upon 
without  thinking  of  giving  them  utterance.  There  is 
much  of  Byron's  poetry  which  seems  almost  like  a  literal 
transcript  of  our  past  or  occasional  emotions  ;  the  more 
powerful  and  acknowledged  a  genius,  the  more  fervently 
do  we  declare  the  coincidence  of  our  feelings  with  his 
delineations.  Many  odd  speculations  have  occurred  to  us 
in  reference  to  the  strange  subjects  to  which  Lamb  is 
partial ;  we  respond  to  most  of  his  portraitures,  and  sym- 
pathise  in  the  feelings  he  avows.  His  humor  and  pathos, 
therefore,  are  true,  singulary,  beautifully  true,  to  human 
Dature ;  in  this  consists  their  superiority.  Many  have 
aimed  at  the  same  results  in  a  similar  way  ;  but  the  genius 
of  Lamb,  in  this  department,  has  achieved  no  ordinary 
triumph. 

The  drama  was  a  rich  source  of  pleasure  and  reflection 
to  Lamb.  During  a  life  passed  almost  wholly  in  the  me- 
tropolis,  the  theatre  afforded  him  constant  recreation,  and 
the  species  of  exitement  his  peculiar  genius  required.  It 
was  to  him  an  important  element  in  the  imaginative  being 
he  cherished.  By  means  of  it,  he  continually  renewed 
and  brightened  the  rich  vein  of  sentiment  inherent  in  his 
nature.  To  him  it  addressed  language  rife  with  the  mean- 
ing  which  characterised  its  ancient  voice, — full  of  sug- 


340  CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB. 

gestive  and  impressive  eloquence.  Deeply  versed  in  the 
whole  range  of  dramatic  literature,  master  of  the  philoso- 
phy of  Shakspeare,  and  overflowing  with  a  highly  cultiva- 
ted taste  for  the  dramatic  art,  the  drama  was  ranked  by 
Elia  among  the  redeeming  things  of  life.  He  did  not 
coldly  recognise,  but  deeply  felt,  its  importance  to  modern 
society.  Surrounded  by  the  bustle,  the  worldliness  and 
the  material  agencies  of  a  populous  capital,  he  daily  saw 
man  struggling  on  beneath  the  indurating  pressure  of 
necessity,  or  presenting  only  artificial  aspects, — and  to 
the  strong  and  true  representation  of  human  nature,  on 
the  stage  and  in  the  works  of  the  dramatist,  he  looked  as 
a  noble  means  of  renovation.  It  gratified  his  humane 
spirit,  that  the  poor  mechanic  should  lose,  for  an  hour,  the 
memory  of  his  toilsome  lot,  in  sympathy  with  some  vivid 
personation  of  that  love  which  once  sent  a  glow  to  his 
now  hallow  temples  ;  that  the  creature  of  fashion  and 
pride  should,  occasionally,  be  led  back  to  the  primal  foun- 
tains of  existence  by  the  hand  of  Thespis  ;  that  an  un- 
wonted tear  should  sometimes  be  drawn,  like  a  pearl  from 
the  deep,  to  the  eye  of  some  fair  worlding,  at  the  mighty 
appeal  of  nature,  in  the  voice  of  an  affecting  portrayer  of 
her  truth.  Elia  had  faith  in  the  legitimate  drama,  as  the 
native  offspring  of  the  human  mind,  significant  of  its 
successive  eras,  and  as  fitted  to  supply  one  of  its  truest 
and  deepest  want? ;  and  well  he  might  have  had,  for  its 
history  was  as  familiar  to  him  as  a  household  tale  ;  ho 
had  explored  its  chronicles  with  the  assiduity  of  an  en- 
thusiast, and  the  acumen  of  a  virtuoso  ;  he  had  garnered  up 
its  gems  as  the  true  jewels  of  his  country's  literature  ;  he 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB  341 

honored  its  worthy  votaries  as  ministrants  at  the  altar  of 
humanity  ;  and,  above  all,  in  his  own  experience,  he  had 
learned  what  human  taste,  judgment  and  feeling,  may 
derive  from  the  wise  appropriation  of  dramatic  influence. 
He  knew,  as  well  as  his  readers,  how  much  he  was  in- 
debted to  an  intelligent  devotion  to  them,  for  the  vividness 
of  his  pencilings,  the  fertility  of  his  associations,  and  the 
beauty  of  his  imagery.  Not  in  vain  did  he  seek,  in  Ham- 
let's|musings,  "  grounds  more  relative"  than  popular  reading 
could  afford,  or  turn  from  the  inconsistencies  of  modern 
gallantry,  which  he  so  admirably  delineated,  to  bestow 
his  fond  attentions  upon  the  "bright  angel"  of  Verona, 
and  "  the  gentle  lady  wedded  to  the  Moor." 

Lamb's  interest  in  the  drama  was  too  well  founded  to 
be  periodical,  as  is  generally  the  case.  He  shared,  in- 
deed, the  common  destiny,  in  beholding  his  youthful 
visions  of  theatrical  glory  fade ;  the  time  came  to  him,  as 
it  comes  to  all,  when  the  mysterious  curtain  w^as  reduced 
to  its^actual  quality,  aud  became  bona  fide  green  baize, 
and  when  the  polished  pilasters  lost  th^ir  likeness  to 
"  glorified  sugar  candy  ;"  but  the  histrionic  art  retained 
its  interest,  and  the  literature  of  the  drama  yielded  a 
continual  pastime.  From  the  rainy  afternoon  which  the 
"  child  Elia'^  spent  in  such  hope  and  fear,  lest  the  way. 
ward  elements  should  deprive  him  of  his  "  first  play" — to 
the  night  when  the  sleep  of  the  man  Elia  was  disturbed 
with  visions  of  old  Muden — he  sought  and  found,  in  the 
drama,  food  for  his  reflective  humor  and  pleasurable  oc- 
cupancy in  his  weary  moods — if  such  e'er  came  to  him — 


29^ 


342  CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB. 

which  may  be  doubted,  since  he  has  not  so  informed 
lis.  Notwithstanding  his  partiality  for  theatrical  repre- 
sentation?, few  play-goers  entertained  a  more  just  idea 
of  their  frequent  and  necessary  inadequateness.  He 
recognised  the  limits  of  the  dramatic  art.  He  realised, 
beyond  the  generality  of  Shakspeare's  admirers,  the  im- 
possibility  of  presenting,  by  the  most  successful  perfor- 
mance, our  deepest  conception  of  his  characters.  He 
knew  that  the  wand  of  that  enchanter  dealt  with  things 
too  deep,  not  only  for  speech,  but  for  expression.  He 
was  impatient  at  the  common  interpretation  of  Shak- 
speare's mind.  In  the  stillness  of  his  retired  study,  the 
creations  of  the  bard  appeared  to  him,  as  in  an  exalted 
dream.  In  the  attentive  perusal  of  his  plays, — the  deli- 
cate touches,  the  finer  shades,  the  under  current  of  phi- 
losophy, were  revealed  to  the  mind  of  Lamb  with  an 
impressiveness,  of  which  personification  is  unsuscep- 
tible ;  and  few  of  his  essays  are  more  worthy  of  his 
genius  than  that  which  embodies  his  views  on  this  subject. 
It  should  be  attentively  read  by  ail  who  habitually  honor 
the  minstrel  of  Avon,  without  being  perfectly  aware  why 
the  honor  is  due.  It  will  lead  such  to  new  investigations 
into  the  mysteries  of  that  wonderful  tragic  lore,  upon 
which  the  most  gifted  men  have  been  proud  to  ofier 
one  useful  comment,  or  advance  a  single  illustrative  hint. 
To  the  acted  and  written  drama.  Lamb  assigned  an 
appropriate  office;  he  believed  each  had  its  purpose 
and  that  he  who  would  derive  the  greatest  benefit 
from  either,  should  study  them  relatively  and  in  conjunc- 
tion.    Such  was  his  own  method,  and  to  the  steadiness 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB.  343 

and  success  with  which  he  pursued  it,  his  writings  bear 
the  most  interesting  testimony.  The  gofit  with  which  he 
dwells  upon  his  dramatic  reminiscences,  the  delight  he 
takes  in  living  over  scenes  of  this  kind, — in  recalling, 
after  an  interval  of  years,  the  enjoyment  of  a  single  even, 
ing  of  Liston's  or  Bensley's  acting,  indicate  the  intelli- 
gence and  warmth  of  his  love  of  theatrical  performances  ; 
while  his  successful  efforts  in  reviving  the  nearly  forgot- 
ten dramatic  literature  of  the  English  stage,  and  his  ad- 
mirable essays,  directly  or  indirectly  devoted  to  the  gen- 
eral  subject,  evince  his  application  and  attachment  to  it. 
His  talents  as  a  dramatic  critic  are  everywhere  visible. 
There  is  one  feature  of  our  author's  devotion  to  the  drama, 
which  is  too  characteristic  of  the  man,  and  too  intrinsically 
pleasing,  to  be  unnoticed.  He  never  forgot  those  who 
had  contributed  to  his  pleasure  in  this  manner.  They 
were  not  to  him  the  indifferent,  unestimated  beings  they 
are  to  the  majority  of  (hose  who  are  amused  and  instruct- 
ed by  their  labors.  Charles  Lamb  resnccled  the  genius 
of  a  splendid  tragedian  on  the  same  grounds  that  that  of  a 
fine  sculptor  won  his  admiration.  He  believed  one  as 
heaven-bestowed  as  the  other.  He  recognized  his  intel- 
lectual or  moral  obligations  to  an  affecting  actor  as  readi- 
ly  as  to  a  favorite  author.  He  sincerely  respected  the 
ideality  of  the  profession,  sympathised  in  the  life  of  toil 
and  comparative  isolation  it  imposes,  and  felt  for  the  de- 
serving and  ambitious  who  had,  by  assiduous  culture  and 
native  energy,  risen  to  its  summit  only  to  look  forward 
from  that  long  sought  elevation,  to  a  brief  continuance  of 


344  CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB. 

success,  followed  by  an   unhonored  decline,  an  age  of 
neglect,  and  the  world's  oblivion. 

One  of  Lamb's  most  winning  traits  is  his  sincerity. 
The  attractiveness  of  this  beautiful  virtue,  even  in  litera- 
ture, is  worthy  of  observation.     It  seems  to  be  an  ordi. 
nation  of  the  intellectual  world,  and  a  blessed  one  it  is  to 
those  who  cherish  faith   in  a  spiritual  philosophy — that 
truth  of  expression  shall  alone  prove  powerfully  and  per- 
manently effective.     It  is  happy  that  we  are  so  constituted 
as  to   be  moved  chiefly,  if  not  solely,  by  voices  attuned 
and  awakened   by  genuine  emotion  ;   it  is  well  when  for- 
eign aids  and  the  most  insinuating  of  conventional  ap- 
pliances fail  to  deceive  us  into  admiration  of  an  artificial 
literary  aspirant ;  it  is  a  glorious  distinction  of  our  com 
mon  nature,  that  soul-prompted  language  is  the  only  uni 
versally  acknowledged  eloquence.     The  mission  of  in- 
dividual genius  is  to  exhibit  itself.     The   advocacy  of 
popular  opinions,  the  illustration  of  prevailing  theories — 
the  literary  party-work  of  the  day,  may  be  undertaken  by 
such  as  are  unconscious  of  any  more  special  and  person- 
al calling.     But  let  there  be  a  self-preaching  priesthood 
in  the  field  of  letters  and  of  art,  to  teach  the  great  lesson 
of  human  individuality.     Let  some  gifted  votaries  of  lite- 
rature and  philosophy  breathe  original  symphonies,  instead 
of  merging  their  rich  tones  in  the  general  chorus.     Un- 
fortunate is  the  era  when  such  men  are  not ;   and  thrice 
illustrious  that  in  which  they  abound.     The  history  of  the 
world  proves  this ;  and  in  proportion  as  an  author  is  sin- 
cere, in  whatever  age,  he  deserves  our  respect.     We  spon- 
taneously honor  minds  of  this  order,  in  whatever  form 


r 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB.  345 

they  are  encountered.  The  complacent  smile  with  which 
doiice  Davie  Deans,  in  Scott's  most  beautiful  tale,  hears 
himself  denominated  a  JDeanite,  recommends  him  to  our 
esteem.  And  when  a  poet  or  an  essayist  is  as  habitually 
and  earnestly  candid  as  is  Eiia,  we  feel  and  acknowledge 
his  worth,  whatever  may  be  the  calibre  of  his  genius. 

Many  and  singular  are  the  advantages  attendant  upon 
this  characteristic.  The  most  obvious  is  that  it  brings 
out  the  true  power — the  pr opium  ingeniwn — of  the  indi- 
vidual. Look  at  the  history  of  Milton  and  Dante.  They 
surveyed  their  immediate  social  circumstances  for  a  re- 
flection of  themselves  in  vain;  and  then  in  calm  confi- 
dence they  turned  to  the  mirror  fountain  within  them- 
selves, and  thence  evolved  thoughts — unappreciated,  in- 
deed, by  their  contemporaries,  yet  in  the  view  of  posterity 
none  the  less  oracular.  And  such  intellectual  laborers — 
♦  however  confined  and  comparatively  unimportant  the 
sphere  of  effort — being  absolved  from  any  undue  alle- 
giance to  merely  temporary  influences,  give  to  their  pro- 
ductions a  free  and  personal  stamp.  Truth  is  to  litera- 
ture, what,  in  the  view  of  the  alchymists,  the  philosopher's 
stone  was  to  the  base  metals  ;  it  converts  all  it  touches  in- 
to gold.  And,  although  our  author  had  to  do  mainly  with 
topics  which  a  superficial  reasoner  would  term  trifling, 
yet  his  lovely  sincerity  gives  them  a  character,  and  sheds 
upon  them  a  warm  and  soothing  light  more  pleasing  than 
weightier  themes,  less  iugenously  treated,  can  often  boast. 
Being  sincere,  of  course  Elia  wrote  only  from  the  inspi- 
ration of  his  overflowing  spirit ;  he  seems  to  have  penned 
every  line,  to  have  thrown  oflT  every  essay,  con  amove. 


346  CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB. 

He  did  not  require  the  expedient  of  the  Greek  painter, 
who  covered  the  face  of  one  of  his  great  figures  with  a 
mantle,  not  daring  to  attempt  a  portraiture  of  the  intense 
grief  which  he  represented  him  as  suffering.  Lamb  en- 
deavored not  to  express  what  he  did  not  feel ;  he  wrote 
not  from  necessity  or  policy,  but  from  enthusiasm,  from 
his  own  gentle,  sweet,  yet  deep  enthusiasm.  He  had  a 
feeling  for  the  art  of  writing,  and  therefore  he  would  not 
make  it  the  hackneyed  conventional  agent  it  often  is  ; 
but  ever  regarded  it  as  a  crystalline  mould  wherein  he  could 
faithfully  present  the  form,  hues,  and  very  spirit  of  his 
sentiments  and  speculations. 

A  striking  and  delightful  consequence  of  this  literary 
sincerity  is,  that  it  preserves  and  developes  the  proper 
humanity  of  the  author.  Literati  of  this  class  are  utterly 
devoid  of  pedantry.  In  society,  and  the  common  busi- 
ness of  life,  they  are  as  other  men,  except  that  a  finer  sen- 
sibility, and  more  elevated  general  taste,  distinguishes 
them.  In  becoming  writers,  they  cease  not  to  be  men. 
Literature  is  then,  indeed,  what  the  English  poet  would 
have  it, — *'  an  honorable  augmentation  "  to  our  arms  ;  it 
is  not  exclusively  pursued  as  if  it  were  life's  only  good, 
and  a  human  being^s  sole  aim ;  but  it  is  applied  to  as  a 
beautiful  accomplishment — a  poetical  recreation  amid  less 
humanizing  influences.  Thus,  instead  of  serving  mere- 
ly as  an  arena  for  the  display  of  selfish  ambition,  or  a  cell 
wherein  unsocial  and  barren  devotion  may  find  scope,  it 
is  valued  chiefly  as  the  means  of  embodying  the  unforced 
impressions  of  our  own  natures,  for  the  happiness  and 
improvement  of  our  fellow  creaiures.     We  say  that  such 


CHARACTERISTICS    OE    LAMB.  347 

a  view  must  be  taken  by  sincere  authors  of  their  vocation, 
because  they  cannot  but  feel  that  by  the  very  constitution  of 
their  natures,  literature  is  only  a  part  of  the  great  whole 
of  the  soul's  being — a  single  form  of  its  development,  and 
one  among  the  thousand  offices  to  which  the  versatile 
mind  is  called. 

It  is  needless  to  prove,  in  detail,  Lamb's  sincerity.  It 
is,  perhaps,  his  most  prominent  characterislic  ;  but  in  tra. 
cing  out  and  dwelling  upon  its  influence,  we  are  newly 
impressed  with  the  truth  of  Shaftesbury's  declaration,  that 
''wisdom  is  more  from  the  heart  than  from  the  head." 
We  have  ever  remarked  that  the  most  delightful  and  truly 
sincere  writers  are  the  most  suceptible,  affectionate,  and 
unaffected  men.  We  have  felt,  that  however  intellectually 
endowed,  the  feelings  of  such  individuals  are  the  true 
sources  of  their  power.  Sympathy  we  consider  one  of  the 
primal  principles  of  efficient  genius.  It  is  this  truth  of 
feeling  which  enabled  Shakspeare  to  depict  so  strongly 
the  various  stages  of  passion,  and  the  depth,  growth,  and 
gradations  of  sentiment.  In  whom  does  this  primitive 
readiness  to  sympathize — to  enter  into  all  the  moods  of  the 
soul — continue  beyond  early  life,  so  often  as  in  men  de- 
voted to  imaginative  objects  ?  How  frequently  are  we 
struck  with  the  child-like  character  of  artists  and  poets  ! 
It  sometimes  seems  as  if,  along  with  childhood's  ready 
sympathy,  many  of  the  other  characteristics  of  that  epoch 
were  projected  into  the  more  mature  stages  of  being. 
"There  is  often,"  says  Madame  de  Stael,  "  in  true  genius 
a  sort  of  awkwardness,  similar,  in  some  respects,  to  the 
credulity  of  sincere  and  noble  souls." 


348  CHARACTERISTICS    OF  LAMB. 

This  readiness  to  catch  impressions,  this  delicacy  and 
warmth  of  sympathy  which  belongs  to  the  sincere  school 
of  writers,  is  inestimable.  It  is  said  that  a  musical  ama- 
teur traversed  the  whole  of  Ireland,  and  gathered  from  the 
peasants  the  delightful  airs  to  which  Moore's  beautiful 
Irish  melodies  were  afterwards  adapted.  How  much  of 
the  charm  of  those  sweet  songs  is  owing  to  their  associ- 
ations with  the  native  and  simple  music  thus  gleaned 
from  voices  to  which  it  had  traditionally  descended ! 
And  it  is  by  their  sympathy — their  sincere  and  universal 
interest  in  humanity,  that  the  sweetest  poets,  the  most  re- 
nowned dramatists,  and  such  humble  gleaners  in  the  field 
of  letters,  as  our  quaint  essayist,  are  enabled  to  write  in  a 
manner  corresponding  with  the  heaven-attuned,  unwritten 
music  of  the  human  heart.  Sincerity  gives  them  the 
means  of  interpreting  for  their  fellow  beings — not  only 
the  lofty  subjects  which  filled  the  soul  of  the  "  blind  bard 
of  Paradise,"  and  the  broad  range  of  life  upon  which  the 
observant  mind  of  the  poet  of  human  nature  was  intent, 
but  those  lesser  and  more  unique  themes  which  Elia  loved 
to  speculate  about,  and  humorously  illustrate. 

There  is  a  unity  of  design  in  the  essays  of  Elia.  Dis- 
connected and  fugitive  as  we  should  deem  them  at  first 
sight,  an  attentive  perusal  reveals,  if  not  a  complete  theory 
yet  a  definite  and  pervading  spirit  which  is  not  devoid  of 
philosophy.  After  being  amused  by  Lamb's  humor,  inte- 
rested by  his  quaintness,  and  fascinated  by  his  style,  there 
yet  remains  a  more  deep  impression  upon  our  minds. 
We  feel  that  he  had  a  specific  object  as  an  essayist ;  or,  at 
least,  that  the  ideas  he  suggests  tend  to  a  particular  result. 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB.  349 

What,  then,  was  his  aim  ?  As  an  author,  what  mission 
does  he  fulfil  ?  We  think  Charles  Lamb  is  to  life  what 
Wordsworth  is  to  nature.  The  latter  points  out  the 
field  flowers,  and  the  meadow  rill,  the  soaPs  most  primal  and 
simple  movements,  the  mind's  most  single  and  unso- 
phisticated tendencies  ;  the  former  indicates  the  lesser,  and 
scarcely  noticed  sources  of  pleasure  and  annoyance,  mirth 
and  reflection,  which  occur  in  the  beaten  track  of  ordina- 
ry life.  It  was  remarked,  by  an  able  critic,  of  the  author 
of  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  that,  *'  he  may  be  said  to  take  a 
personal  interest  in  the  universe;"  with  equal  truth  Elia 
may  be  regarded  as  taking  a  personal  interest  in  life.  He 
delighted  in  designating  its  every-day,  universal,  and  for 
that  very  reason — disregarded  experiences.  Leaving  the 
delineation  of  martyrdoms,  and  the  deeper  joys  of  the 
heart,  to  more  ambitious  writers,  he  preferred  to  dwell  upon 
the  misery  of  children  when  left  awake  in  their  solitary 
beds  in  the  dark  ;  to  shadow  forth  the  peace  destroy- 
ing phantom  of  a  "poor  relation  ;"  to  draw  up  eloquent 
bacheloric  complaints  of  the  behavior  of  "  married  people  ;" 
to  describe  in  touching  terms,  the  agony  of  one  condemn- 
ed to  hear  music  "  without  an  ear  ;"  and  to  lament  patheti- 
cally the  unsocial  aspect  of  a  metropolitan  Sabbath,  and 
the  disturbing,  heartless  conduct  of  those  who  remove 
old  landmarks.  He  did  not  sorrow  only  over  minor  mis- 
eries, but  gloried  in  minor  pleasures.  To  him,  "  Elysian 
exemptions"  from  ordinary  toil — a  sweet  morning's  nap— 
a  **  sympathetic  solitude" — an  incidental  act  or  emotion  of 
benevolence,  and,  especially,  those  dear  "  treasures  cased 
in  leathern  covers,"  for  which  he  was  so  thankful  that  he 
80 


350  CHABACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB. 

assures  us  that  he  could  say  grace  before  reading  them  ; — 
these,  and  such  as  these,  were  to  Charles  Lamb  absolute 
and  recognized  blessings.  He  seems  to  have  broken  away 
from  the  bondage  of  custom  and  to  have  seen  all  things 
new.  One  would  think,  to  note  the  freshness  of  his  per- 
ceptions in  regard  to  the  most  familiar  objects  of  London, 
that  in  manhood  he  was  for  the  first  time  initiated  into  city 
life — that  he  was  a  new  comer  in  the  world  at  an  advanced 
age.  Hogarth  found  no  more  delight  in  his  street-pen- 
cilings,  than  Lamb  in  his  by-way  speculations.  In  the 
voyage  of  life  he  seemed  to  be  an  ordained  cicerone,  di- 
recting attention  to  that  lesser  world  of  experience  to 
which  the  mass  of  men  are  insensible, — drawing  their  at. 
tention  from  far-off  visions  of  good,  and  oppressive  remi- 
niscences  of  grief,  to  the  low  green  herbage,  springing  up 
in  their  way,  and  the  soft  gentle  voices  breathing  at  their 
firesides,  and  around  their  daily  steps.  And  there  is  truth 
in  Elia's  philosophy,  for, — 

"  If  rightly  trained  and  bred, 
Humanity  is  humble, — finds  no  spot 
)Ier  heaven-guided  feet  refuse  to  tread." 

We  never  rise  from  one  of  his  essays  without  a  feeling 
of  contentment.  He  leads  our  thoughts  to  the  actual,  avail- 
able springs  of  enjoyment.  He  reconciles  us  to  ourselves  ; 
causing  home-pleasures,  and  the  charms  of  the  wayside, 
and  the  mere  comforts  of  existence,  to  emerge  from  the 
shadow  into  which  our  indifference  has  cast  them,  into 
the  light  of  fond  recognition.  The  flat  dull  surface  of  com- 
mon  life,  he  causes  to  rise  into  beautiful  basso-relievo.     In 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB.  351 

truth,  there  are/ew  better  teachers  of  gratitude  than  Lamb. 
He  rejuvenates  our  worn  and  weary  feelings,  revives  the 
dim  flame  of  our  enthusiasm,  opens  our  eyes  to  real 
and  present  good,  and  with  his  humorous  accents,  and  un- 
pretending manner,  reads  us  a  homily  on  the  folly  of  des- 
ponding, and  the  wisdom  of  appreciating  the  cluster  of 
minor  joys  which  surround,  and  may  be  made  continually 
to  cheer  our  being. 

We  have  endeavored  to  designate  the  most  prominent 
of  Charles  Lamb's  traits  as  an  essayist.  There  is,  how- 
ever, one  point  to  which  all  that  we  know  of  the  man  con- 
verges. His  literary  and  personal  example  tends  to  one 
striking  lesson,  which  should  not  be  thoughtlessly  receiv- 
ed. We  allude  to  his  singular  and  constant  devotion  to 
the  ideal.  Indeed  he  is  one  of  those  beings  who  make  us 
deeply  and  newly  feel  how  much  there  is  within  a  human 
spirit, — how  independent  it  may  become  of  extrinsic  aids,-- 
how  richly  it  may  live  to  itself.  Here  is  an  individual 
whose  existence  was,  for  the  most  part,  spent  within  the 
smoky  precincts  of  London  ;  first  a  school-boy  at  a  popu- 
lar institution,  then  a  laborious  clerk,  and  at  length  a 
"  lean  annuitant."  Public  life,  with  its  various  mental  in- 
citements,— foreign  travel,  with  its  thousand  fertilizing 
associations, — fortune,  with  the  unnumbered  objects  of 
taste  she  affords, — ministered  not  to  him.  Yet  with  what 
admirable  constancy  did  he  follow  out  that  sense  of  the 
beautiful,  and  the  perfect,  which  he  regarded  as  most  es- 
sentially himself!  How  ardently  did  he  cherish  an 
ideal  life  !  When  outward  influences  and  social  restric- 
tions encroached  upon  this,  his  great  end, — the  drama, 


362  CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB. 

his  favorite  authors,  a  work  of  art,  or  a  musing  hour,  were 
proved  restoratives.  He  did  not  gratify  his  fondness  for 
antiquity  among  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  world  ;  but  the 
Temple  cloisters,  or  an  old  folio,  were  more  eloquent  to 
him  of  the  past,  than  the  Coloseum  is  to  the  mass  of  travel- 
lers. He  knew  not  the  happiness  of  conjugal  affection  ; 
but  his  attachment  to  a  departed  object  was  to  him  a 
spring  of  as  deep  joy,  as  the  unimaginative  often  find  in 
an  actual  passion.  No  little  prattlers  came  about  him  at 
even-tide;  but  dream-children,  as  lovely  as  cherubs,  so. 
laced  his  lonely  hours.  The  taste,  the  love,  the  very 
being  of  Charles  Lamb,  was  ideal.  The  struggles  for 
power  and  gain  went  on  around  him  ;  but  the  tumult  dis- 
turbed not  his  repose.  The  votaries  of  pleasure  swept  by 
him  with  all  the  insignia  of  gaiety  and  fashion  ;  but  the 
dazzle  and  laugh  of  the  careless  throng  lured  him  not 
aside.  He  felt  it  was  a  blessed  privilege  to  stand  be- 
neath  the  broad  heavens,  to  saunter  through  the  fields,  to 
muse  upon  the  ancient  and  forgotten,  to  look  into  the 
faces  of  men,  to  rove  on  the  wings  of  fancy,  to  give  scope 
to  the  benevolent  aflfections,  and  especially  to  evolve  from 
his  own  breast  a  light  "touching  all  things  with  hues  of 
heaven  ;"  in  a  word  to  be  Elia.  And  is  there  not  a  de- 
light in  contemplating  such  a  life  beyond  that  which  the 
annals  of  noisier  and  more  heartless  men  inspire  ?  In  an 
age  of  restless  activity,  associated  effort,  and  a  devotion  to 
temporary  ends,  is  there  not  an  unspeakable  charm  in  the 
character  of  a  consistent  idealist  ?  When  we  can  recall  so 
many  instances  of  the  perversion  of  the  poetical  tempera- 
ment in  gifted  natures,  through  passion  and  error,   is 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    LAMB.  353 

there  not  consolation  in  the  serene  and  continuous  gratifr- 
cation  with  which  it  blessed  Lamb?  He  has  now  left 
forever,  the  haunts  accustomed  to  his  presence.  No 
more  will  Elia  indite  quaint  reminiscences  and  humorous 
descriptions  for  our  pleasure ;  no  more  will  his  criticism 
enlighten,  his  pathos  affect,  or  his  aphorisms  delight  us. 
But  his  sweet  and  generous  sympathies,  his  refined  taste 
for  the  excellent  in  tetters,  his  grateful  perception  of  the 
true  good  of  being,  his  ideal  spirit,  dwells  latently  in 
every  bosom.  And  all  may  brighten  andr  adiate  it,  till 
life's  cold  pathway  is  warm  with  the  sunshine  of  the  soul. 


30* 


MISCELLANY 


THE    BACHELOR RECL AIMED 


A    SKETCH    FROM    REAL   LIFE. 


"  So,  you  are  determined  not  to  marry  ?" 

♦«  Absolutely." 

'«And  why?" 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  never  expect  to  be  able  to  support 
a  wife  according  to  my  ideas  of  comfort.  In  the  second 
place,  I  have  no  hope  of  meeting  a  woman  \yho  will  sym- 
pathise sufficiently  with  my  feelings  and  views,  to  be  a 
congenial  companion.  Thirdly,  I  cannot  bear  the  idea  of 
adopting  as  constant  associates  the  relations  of  her  I  may 
love,  and  fourthly,  I  consider  housekeeping  and  all  the 
details  of  domestic  arrangements,  the  greatest  bore  in 
existence." 

This  colloquy  took  place  between  two  young  men,  in 
the  garden  of  one  of  the  fashionable  hotels  at  Saratoga. 
It  was  a  sultry  afternoon,  and  they  had  retired  under  the 
shade  of  an  apple-tree,  to  digest  their  dinner,  which  pro- 
cess they  were  facilitating  by  occasionally  puffing  some 
very  mild,  light-brown  Havana  segars.      The  last  re- 


358  THE    BACHELOR    RECLAIMED. 

marks  were  uttered  in  a  very  calm  and  positive  tone,  by 
McNiel,  a  philosophical  and  quiet  gentleman,  who  had 
a  most  sensible    theory  for  everything  in   life.     Among 
other  things,  he  took  great  pleasure   in  the  conviction 
that  he  thoroughly  understood  himself.     The  first  time 
his  interest  was  truly  excited  by  a  member  of  the  gentler 
sex,  he  had  acted   in  the  most  extravagant  manner,  and 
barely  escaped   with  honor  from  forming  a  most  injudi- 
cious connection.     To  guard  against  similar  mishaps, 
he  had  adopted  a  very  ingenious  plan.     Being  uncom- 
monly    susceptible  to   female  attractions,  he   made  it  a 
rule  wken  charmed  by  a  sweet  face,  or  thrilled  by  a  win- 
ning voice,  to  seek  for  some  personal  defect  or  weakness 
of  character,  in   the  fair  creature,  and  obstinately  dwell 
upon  these  imperfections,  until  they  cast  a  shade  over  the 
redeeming    traits,    and  dissolved    the   spell   he    feared. 
When  this    course    failed,  he    had  but    one  resource. 
With  FalstafF,  he  thought  discretion  the  better  part  of 
valor,  and   deliberately    fled  from    the   allurements    that 
threatened  his  peace.     Thus  he   managed  not  to  allow 
love  to  take  permanent  possession,  and,   after  various 
false  alarms  and  exciting  vigils,  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  no  long  siege  or  sudden  attack  would  ever  subdue  the 
citadel  of  his  affections. 

But  McNiel  had  so  braced  himself  in  a  spirit  of  re- 
sistance, that  he  had  made  no  provision  against  the  un- 
conscious  lures  of  beauty.  He  could  chat,  for  hours, 
with  a  celebrated  belle,  and  leave  her  without  a  sigh; 
he  could  smile  at  the  captivating  manners  which  over- 
came  his  fellows.     Regarding  society  as  a  battle-field, 


THE    BACHELOR    RECLAIMED.  359 

he  went  thither  armed  at  all  points,  resolved  to  main- 
tain his  self-possession,  and  be  on  the  watch  against  the 
wiles  of  woman.  He  had  seen  lovely  girls  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, followed  their  graceful  movements  in  the 
dance,  heard  them  breathe  songs  of  sentiment  at  the 
piano,  and  walked  beside  them  on  the  promenade.  On 
these  occasions,  he  coolly  formed  an  estimate  of  their 
several  graces,  perfectly  .appreciated  every  finely-chiselled 
nose  and  tempting  lip,  noted  with  care  the  hue  and 
expression  of  the  eye,  but  walked  proudly  away  at  part- 
ing, murmuring  to  himself,  <*  all  this  I  see,  yet  am  not  in 
love." 

Bjt  who  can   anticipate  the  weapon  that  shall  lay  him 
low,  or  make  adequate  provision  against  the  inexhaustible 
resources   of    love  ?      McNiel    had    sat  for   a   week    at 
table,  opposite  an  invalid  widow  and  her  daughter.     He 
had  passed  them  potatoes   not   less  than   a  dozen  times, 
and  helped  the  young  lady  twice  to  cherry-pie.     The 
only   impression  he  had    derived  from    their  demeanor 
and  appearance,  was,   that  they  were  very  genteel   and 
quiet.     On   the  morning  after  his   conversation  in   the 
garden,  he  awoke  just  before  sunrise,  and  found  him- 
self lying  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  in  one  of  the  diminu- 
tive chambers   in  which  visitors   to  the  Springs   are  so 
unceremoniously  packed.     His  eyes   opened  within    six 
inches  of  the  plaster ;   and  he  amused  himself  for   some 
minutes,  in  conjuring  the  cracks  and  veins  it  displayed, 
into    imaginary    forms   of    warriors    and    animals.     At 
length  his  mind  reverted  to   himself,  and  his  present 
quarters.     "  Well,  I've  been  here  just  a  fortnight,'*  thus 


360  THE    BACHELOR    RECLAIMED. 

he  mused,   "  and  a  pretty  dull  time  I've  had  of  it.     Day 
after  day,  the  same  stupid  routine.     In   the   morning  I 
swallow  six  glasses  of   Congress  water  at  the  spring, 
with  the  hollow  eyes  of  that  sick  minister  from  Con- 
necticut glaring  on  me  like  a  serpent,  and  the  die-away 
tones  of  that  nervous  lady  from  Philadelphia,  sounding 
like  a  knell  in  my  ears.     I  cannot  drink  in  peace  for 
those  everlasting  Misses  Hill,  who  all  three  chatter  at 
once,  and   expect  me  to  be  entertaining  and  talkative  so 
early  in  the  morning,  with  my  stomach  full  of  cold  liquid, 
and  a  long  dull  day  in  perspective  !     Then  comes  break- 
fast.    The  clatter  of  plates,   the   murmur  of  voices,  the 
rushing  of  the  black  waiters,  and  the  variety  of  steams, 
make   me  glad  to  retreat.     I  find  a  still  corner  of  the 
piazza,  and   begin   to  read ;   but  the   flies,  a  draught  of 
air,  or  the  intrusive  gabble  of  my  acquaintances,  utterly 
prevent  me  from   becoming  absorbed   in  a  book.     It  has 
now  grown  too  warm  to  walk,  and  I  look  in  vain  for  Dr. 
Clayton,    who  is   the   only   man    here  whose  conversa- 
tion interests  me.     I  avoid  the  billiard-room  because  I 
know  who  I  shall  meet  there.     The  swing  is  occupied. 
The   thrumming  on   the  piano  of   that  old   maid  from 
Providence,  makes  the  saloon  uninhabitable.     They  are 
talking  politics  in  the  bar-room.     The  very  sight  of  the 
newspapers  gives   me  a  qualm.     I  involuntarily  begin  to 
doze,  when  that  infernal  gong  sounds  the  hour  to  dress. 
No  matter  ;   any  thing  for  a  relief.     Dinner  is  insuffera- 
ble ;    more   show  and  noise,   than  relish  and   comfort. 
How  gladly  I  escape  to  the  garden  and   smoke !     That 
reminds  we  of  what  I  told  Jones,  yesterday,  about  mat- 


THE    BACHELOR    RECLAIMED.  361 

rimony.  He  laughed  at  me.  But  there's  no  mistake 
about  it.  Catch  me  to  give  up  my  freedom,  and  provide 
for  a  family — be  pestered  with  a  whole  string  of  new  con- 
nections, when  I  can't  bear  those  I  have  now — never  have 
a  moment  to  myself — be  obliged  to  get  up  in  the  night  for  a 
doctor — have  to  pay  for  a  boy's  schooling,  and  be  plauged 
to  death  by  him  for  my  pains — be  bothered  constantly  with 
bad  servants — see  my  wife  lose  her  beauty,  in  a  twelve- 
month from,  care — my  goddess  become  a  mere  household 
drudge — give  up  segars — keep  precise  hours — take  care 
of  sick  children — go  to  market!  never,  never,  never  P^ 

As  his  reverie  thus  emphatically  terminated,  NcNiel 
slowly  raised  himself  to  a  sitting  posture,  in  order  to  as- 
certain the  state  of  the  weather,  when  a  sight  presented 
itself  which  at  once  put  his  philosophy  to  flight  and 
startled  him  from  his  composure.  He  did  not  cry  out, 
but  hushed  his  very  breath.  Beside  him  lay  a  female 
form  in  profound  slumber.  Her  hair  had  escaped  from 
its  confinement,  and  fell  in  the  richest  profusion  around 
her  face.  There  was  a  delicate  glow  upon  the  cheeks. 
The  lips  were  scarcely  parted.  The  brow  was  perfectly 
serene.  One  arm  was  thrust  under  her  head,  the  other 
lay  stretched  upon  the  coverlid.  It  was  one  of  those  ac- 
cidental attitudes  which  sculptors  love  to  embody.  The 
bosom  heaved  regularly.  He  felt  that  it  was  the  slumber 
of  an  innocent  creature,  and  that  beneath  that  calm  breast 
beat  a  kindly  and  pure  heart.  He  bent  over  the  vision, 
for  so  at  first  it  seemed  to  him,  as  did  Narcissus  above 
the  crystal  water.  The  peaceful  beauty  of  that  face  en- 
tered his  very  soul.  He  trembled  at  the  still  regularity  of 
31 


3fi2  THE    BACHELOR   RECLAIMED. 

the  long,  dark  eye-lashes,  as  if  it  were  death  personified. 
Recovering  himself,  all  at  once  something  familiar  struck 
him  in  the  countenance.  He  thought  awhile,  and  the 
whole  mystery  was  solved.  It  was  the  widow's  daughter. 
They  occupied  the  adjoining  chamber  ;  she  had  gone 
down  stairs  in  the  night  to  procure  something  for  the  in- 
valid, and  on  returning,  entered  in  the  darkness,  the  wrong 
room,  and  fancying  her  mother  asleep,  had  as  she  thought, 
very  quietly  taken  her  place  beside  her,  and  was  soon  lost 
in  slumber.  No  sooner  did  this  idea  take  possession  of 
McNiel,  than  with  the  utmost  caution  and  a  noiseles  move- 
ment, he  stole  away  and  removed  every  vestige  of  his 
presence  into  a  vacant  apartment  opposite,  leaving  the 
fair  intruder  to  suppose  she  alone  had  occupied  the  room. 
At  breakfast,  he  observed  the  mother  and  daughter  whis- 
per  and  smile  together,  and  soon  ascertained  that  they 
had  no  suspicion  of  the  actual  state  of  the  case.  With 
the  delicacy  that  belonged  to  his  character,  McNiel  in. 
wardly  vowed  to  keep  the  secret  forever  in  his  own  breast. 
Meantime,  with  much  apparent  hilarity,  he  prepared  to 
accompany  Jones  to  Lake  George.  His  companion 
marvelled  to  perceive  this  unwonted  gaiety  wear  off  as 
they  proceeded  in  their  ride.  McNiel  became  silent  and 
pensive.  The  evening  was  fine,  and  they  went  upon  the 
lake  to  enjoy  the  moonlight.  Jones  sung  his  best  songs 
and  woke  the  echoes  with  his  bugle.  His  friend  remain- 
ed silent,  wrapt  in  his  cloak,  at  the  boat's  stern.  At  last, 
very  abruptly  he  sprang  up,  and  ordered  the  rowers  to 
land  him.  *'  Where  are  yon  going  ?"  inquired  Jones. 
"  To  Saratoga,"  was  the  reply.     •'  Not  to-night,  surely  ?' 


THE    BACHELOR   RECLAIMED.  t  363 

"Yes,  now,  this  instant."  Entertaining  some  fears  for 
his  friend's  sanity,  Jones  reluctantly  devoted  that  lovely 
night  to  a  hard  ride  over  a  sandy  road,  instead  of  linger- 
ing away  its  delightful  hours,  on  the  sweet  bosom  of  the 
lake. 

Six  months  after,  McNiel  married  the  widow's  daugh- 
ter, and  the  ensuing  summer,  when  I  met  him  at  Sara- 
toga, he  assured  me  he  found  it  a  delightful  residence. 


HAIR. 


Hair  is  an  eloquent  emblem.  It  is  the  mother's  pride 
to  dress  her  child's  rich  locks;  the  lover's  joy  to  gaze  on 
the  hair-locket  of  his  mistress ;  the  mourner's  despair  to 
see  the  ringlet  stir  as  if  in  mockery  of  death,  by  the  mar- 
ble cheek  of  the  departed.  How  the  hue  of  hair  is  hallow- 
ed to  the  fancy !  From  the  "  glossy  raven"  to  the  "  silver, 
sable,"  from  the  "  brown  in  the  shadow,  and  gold  in  the 
sun,"  to  the  blonde  and  silken  thread,  there  is  a  vocabulary 
of  hues  appealing  to  each  memory. 

The  beautiful  economy  of  nature  is  signally  displayed 
in  the  human  hair.  The  most  simple  expedient  in  the 
animal  frame,  the  meanest  adjunct,  as  it  were,  to  the 
figure,  yet  how  effective ! 

"  Hyacinthine  locks 
Round  from  his  parted  forelock  manly  hung 

Clustering,  but  not  beneath  his  shoulders  broad  : 

*  *  *  * 

She,  as  a  veil,  down  to  the  slender  waist, 
Her  unadorned  tresses  wore, 
Disheveled,  but  in  wanton  ringlets  wav'd, 
As  the  vine  curls  her  tendrils,  which  irapUes 


HAIR.  365 

Subjection,  but  required  with  gentle  away, 
And  by  her  yielded,  by  him  best  received, 
Yielded  with  coy  submission,  modest  pride, 
And  sweet,  reluctant,  amorous  delay." 

In  this  passage,  the  blind  bard  of  Paradise  has  interpret- 
ed the  natural  language  of  woman's  hair  before  the  artifi- 
ces of  fashion  had  marred  its  natural  grace.  Whoever 
has  attentively  perused  one  of  the  pictures  of  the  old  mas- 
ters, where  a  female  figure  is  represented,  must  have  per- 
ceived, perhaps  unconsciously,  that  the  long  flexible  ring- 
lets conveyed  an  impression  to  the  mind  of  dependence. 
The  short,  tight  curls  of  a  gladiatorial  statue,  on  the  con- 
trary, give  the  idea  of  self-command  and  unyielding  will. 
There  is  a  poetical  charm  in  the  unshorn  tresses  of  a 
beautiful  woman,  which  Milton  has  not  exaggerated.  I 
have  seldom  received  a  more  sad  conviction  of  the  bitter- 
ness of  poverty,  than  was  conveyed  by  the  story  of  a  lovely 
girl  in  one  of  the  continental  towns,  who  was  obliged  to 
sell  her  hair  for  bread.  She  was  of  humble  parentage, 
but  nature  had  adorned  her  head  with  the  rarest  perfection. 
Her  luxuriant  and  glowing  ringlets,  constituted  the  pride 
of  her  heart.  She  rejoiced  in  this  distinction  as  the  re- 
deeming point  of  her  destiny.  Often  would  a  blush  of 
pleasure  suffuse  her  cheek  as  she  caught  a  stranger's  eye 
regarding  them  with  admiration,  when  at  her  lowly  toil. 
The  homeliness  of  her  garb,  and  the  poverty  of  her  condition 
were  relieved  by  this  native  adornment.  It  is  wonderful 
to  what  slight  tokens  the  self-respect  of  poor  mortals  will 
cling,  and  how  the  very  maintenance  of  virtue  often  de- 
pends  upon  some  frail  association.     A  strain  of  musie, 

31* 


366  HAIR. 

; 

glimpses  of  a  remembered  countenance,  a  dream,  a  word 
will  often  annihilate  a  vile  intention,  or  unseal  the  fount- 
ain of  the  heart.     A  palm  tree  in   England  drew  tears 
from  an  Eastern  wanderer  ;    and  the  native  wisdom  of 
Jeanie  Deans  led  her  to  make  her  first  visit  to  the  Duke 
of  Argyle,  arrayed  in  a  plaid,  knowing  his  honor's  heart 
"  would  warm  to  the  tartan."     And  thus  to  the  simple- 
hearted  maiden  her  rich  and  flowing  hair  was  a  crown  of 
glory — the  only  circumstance  that  elevated  her  in  her  own 
estimation.      And  when  the  iron  necessity  of  want  came 
upon  her,  and  she  was  a  homeless  orphan — when  every 
ihing  had  been  parted  with,  and  all  appeals  to  compassion 
had  failed,  the  spirit  of  the  poor  creature  yielded  to  hun- 
ger, and  she  sold  her  hair.     Before  this  sacrifice,  she  had 
resisted,  with  the  heroism  of  innocence,  the  temptation  to 
purchase  food  at  the  expense  of  honor.     But  when  the 
wants  of  nature  were  appeased,  and  she  went  forth  shorn 
of  her  cherished  ornament,  the  consciousness  of  her  loss 
induced  despair,  and  she  resigned  herself  hopelessly  to  a 
career  of  infamy. 

Abundant  hair  is  said  to  be  indicative  of  strength,  and 
fine  hair,  of  susceptibility.  In  the  hair  are  written  the 
stern  lessons  of  life.  It  falls  away  from  the  head  of  sick- 
ness, and  the  brows  of  the  thoughtful.  The  bright  lot  of 
childhood  is  traced  in  its  golden  threads,  the  free  buoyancy 
of  youth  is  indicated  by  its  wild  luxuriance ;  the  throe  of 
anguish,  the  touch  of  age,  entwine  it  with  a  silver  tissue  ; 
and  intensity  of  spirit  will  there  anticipate  the  snows  of 
time.  The  hair  of  Columbus  was  white  at  thirty ;  and 
before  that  period,  Shelley's  dark  waving  curls  were  dash- 


HAIR.  367 

ed  with  snow.  In  the  account  of  the  execution  of  the 
unfortunate  Mary,  the  last  touch  of  pathos  is  given  to  the 
scene  when  it  is  stated  that  as  the  executioner  held  up  the 
severed  head,  it  was  perceived  that  the  auburn  locks  were 
thickly  strewn  with  grey. 

Associations  of  sentiment  attach  strongly  to  the  hair. 
Around  it  is  wreathed  the  laurel  garland  of  fame.  Amid 
it  tremble  the  flowers  of  a  bridal.  Putting  up  the  hair  is 
the  signal  of  womanhood.  The  Andalusian  women  al- 
ways wear  roses  in  their  glossy  black  hair.  The  barba- 
rous practice  ot  scalping  doubtless  originated  in  a 
savage  idea  of  desecrating  the  temple  of  the  soul,  as 
well  as  of  gathering  trophies  of  victory.  The  head  is 
shaven  by  the  monks  in  token  of  humility,  and  the  sta- 
tionary civilization  of  the  Chinese  is  indicated  by  no 
custom  more  strikingly  than  that  of  wearing  only  a  single 
cue,  the  very  acme  of  unpicturesque.  There  were  few 
more  characteristic  indications  of  a  highly  artificial  state 
of  society  than  the  absurd  style  of  dressing  the  head  once 
so  fashionable.  Even  at  the  present  day,  no  part  of  fe- 
male costume  betrays  individual  taste  more  clearly  than 
the  style  in  which  the  hair  is  worn.  To  tear  the  hair  is  a 
true  expression  of  despair,  and  the  patriarchal  ceremony 
of  scattering  ashes  on  the  head,  was  the  deepest  sign  of 
sorrow.  Plow  much  the  desolate  grandeur  of  the  scene 
on  the  heath,  in  Lear,  is  augmented  by  his  "  white  flakes" 
that  "  challenge  pity,"  and  what  a  picture  we  have  of  Bas- 
sanio's  love,  when  he  says — 

"  Her  sunny  locks 
Hang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece, 


368  HAIR. 

Which  makes  her  seat  at  Belmont,  Colchos  strand, 
And  many  Jasons  come  in  quest  of  her. 

'■  The  women  at  the  siege  of  Messina,  wrought  their  h«iir 
into  bow-strings  for  the  archers,  and  on  a  similar  occasion 
in  the  Spanish  wars,  the  females  of  a  small  garrison  bound 
their  hair  under  the  chin,  to  appear  like  beard,  and  ar- 
ranging themselves  on  the  ramparts,  induced  the  enemy 
to  surrender. 

Sampson's  hair  was  singularly  associated  with  his  mis- 
fortunes, and  the  abundant  locks  of  Absalom  wrought 
the  downfall  of  his  pride.  It  is  often  a  net  to  entrap  the 
affections.  The  hair  speaks  to  the  heart.  Laura's  flying 
tresses  haunted  Petrarch's  fancy  : 

"  Qual  Ninfa  in  fonti,  in  selve,  mai  qual  Dea 
Chiome  d'  oro  si  fino  a  I'aura  sciolse  ?" 

That  the  hair  may  figure  to  advantage  in  literature,  the 
"Rape  of  the  Lock,"  is  an  immortal  proof.  The  Puri- 
tans cut  it  short  and  the  cavaliers  wore  it  luxuriantly. 
Human  vanity  displays  itself  nowhere  more  conspicuously 
than  in  the  arrangement  of  the  hair.  When  Benedict 
enumerates  the  qualifications  required  in  a  wife,  he  says 
in  conclusion — "  her  hair  shall  be  of  what  color  it  please 
God  ;" — alluding  to  the  common  custom  of  dyeing  the 
hair.  Bassanio,  when  moralizing  on  the  caskets,  utters  a 
satire  upon  false  hair ; 

"  So  are  those  crisped  snaky,  golden  locks, 

Which  make  such  wanton  gambols  with  the  wind, 

Upon  supposed  fairness,  often  known 

To  be  the  dowry  of  a  second  head, 

The  scull  that  bred  them  in  the  sepulchre." 


HAIR.  369 

Among  the  beautiful  touches,  alike  true  to  nature  and 
poetry,  in  Talfourd's  Ion,  is  the  language  of  the  dying 
Adrastus  to  his  newly-discovered  son  : — 

"  I  am  growing  weak, 
And  my  eyes  dazzle  ;  let  me  rest  my  hands 
Ere  they  have  lost  their  feeling,  on  thy  head, 
Lo  I  Lo  !  thy  hair  is  glossy  to  the  touch 
As  when  I  last  enwreathed  its  tiny  curl 
About  my  finger." 

It  is  the  surviving  memorial  of  our  physicial  existence  : 

"There  seems  a  love  in  hair,  though  it  be  dead — 
It  is  the  gentlest,  yet  the  strongest  thread 
Of  our  frail  plant — a  blossom  from  the  tree, 
Surviving  the  proud  trunk  ;  as  if  it  said, 
Patience  and  gentleness  is  power.    In  me 
Behold  aflfectionate  eternity." 

D'Israeli  paints  Contarini  Fleming,  the  creature  of 
passion,  after  his  wife's  death,  as  clipping  off  her  long 
tresses,  twining  them  about  his  neck,  and  springing  from 
a  precipice.  Miss  Porter  makes  Helen  Mar  embroider 
into  the  banner  of  VVallace,  the  ensanguined  hair  of  his 
murdered  Marion.  Goldsmith's  coffin  was  opened  to  ob- 
tain some  of  his  hair  for  a  fair  admirer,  and  there  is  a 
striking  anecdote'of  a  man  who  was  prevented  from  decla- 
ring love  to  his  friend's  betrothed,  by  recognizing  on  the 
hand  he  had  clasped,  a  ring,  containing  the  hair  of  his 
rival.  With  what  a  pathetic  expressiveness  does  the 
f'  Cenci"  conclude  : 

Beatrice.    *'  Give  yourself  no  unnecessary  pain. 

My  dear  Lord  Cardinal.    Here,  mother,  tie 


370  HAIR. 

My  girdle  for  me,  and  bind  up  my  hair 
In  any  simple  knot ;  ay,  that  does  well. 
And  yours,  I  see,  is  coming  down.    How  often 
Have  we  done  this  for  one  another  !   and  now 
We  shall  not  do  it  any  more.    My  hood  ! 
We  are  quite  ready.    Well,  'tis  very  well." 

The  dialogue  between  King  John  and  Constance,  is  very 
significant : — 

King  Philip.    *'  Bind  up  those  tresses.    Oh,  what  love  I  note  n 

v^  In  the  fair  multitude  of  those  her  hairs  ! 

Where,  but  by  chance,  a  silver  dross  hath  fallen, 
Even  to  that  dross  ten  thousand  wiry  friends 
Do  glue  themselves  in  sociable  grief; 
Like  true,  inseparable,  faithful  loves, 
Sticking  together  in  calamity." 

Constance.    "  To  England,  if  you  will." 

King  Philip.    "  Bind  up  your  hairs." 

Constance.    "  Yes,  that  I  will  and  wherefore  will  I  do  it  ? 
I  tore  ihem  from  their  bonds  ;  and  cried  aloud, 
Oh,  that  these  hands  could  so  redeem  ray  son, 
As  they  have  given  these  hairs  their  liberty  ! 
But  now  I  envy  at  their  liberty. 
And  will  again  commit  them  to  their  bonds. 
Because  my  poor  child  is  a  prisoner." 


[EYE-LANGUAGE, 


Of  Nature's  minuter  wonders,  the  human"  eye  is  the 
paragon. — Vainly  will  Science  explore  her  rich  arcana 
for  a  more  impressive  example  of  the  marvels  she  would 
illustrate.     But  it  is  not  the  apparatus  which  the  delicate 
knife  of  the  anatomist  reveals — the  retina  and  lenses,  or 
even  their  combined  arrangement  that  most  strikingly 
indicates  the  subtle  workmanship  involved  in  the  little 
fleshy  globule  we  call  the  eye  ; — it  is  the  effect  they  pro- 
duce, the  purposes  they  subserve,  the  results  they  accom- 
plish.    Far  greater  are  these  than  the  careless  crowd 
dream  of ;  far  more  marvelous  than  even  the  intelligent 
and  imaginative  can  fully  realize.     The  phenomenon  of 
sight  is,  indeed,  sufficiently  extraordinary.     Not  less  so 
are  the  minor  missions  which  the  visual  organ  fulfils. 
The  eye  speaks — with  an  eloquence  and  a  truthfulness 
surpassing  speech.     It  is  the  window  out  of  |which  the 
winged  thoughts  often  fly    unwittingly.     It  is  the    tiny 
magic  mirror  on  whose  crystal  surface  the  moods  of  feel- 
ing fitfully  play,  like  the  sunlight  and  shadows  on  a  still 
stream.     Yes— if  there    is  one  material  form  through 


372  EYE-LANGUAGE. 

which  the  spirit  is  visible,  and  with  which,  when  humanly 

embodied,  it  has  specially  to  do,  that  form   is  the  eye. 

Even  in  animals  it  is  emphatically  the  expressive  feature. 

Who  that  has  noted  the  look  of  timid  fondness  with  which 

a  recreant  dog   approaches  his  master,  or  observed   the 

gleam  of  wo  with  which  the  dying  deer  regards  his  hunters 

— and  has  not  felt  this  ?    How  much  more  significant  is  the 

language  of  the  human   eye  !  How  ceaselessly  does  it 

represent  the  soul !  The  instrument  by  which  our  most 

valuable  knowledge  is  received  ;  it  is,  at  the  same  time, 

the  outward  interpreter  of  the  inward  world.     How  imme- 

diate  and  delicate  is  the  spirit's  sway  over  the  aspects  and 

movements  of  this  complicated  organ  !  Instinctively  it  is 

raised  in  devotion,  and  bent  downward  in  shame.     When 

enthusiasm  lends  fire  to  the  soul,  the  eye  flashes  ;  when 

pleasure  stirs  the  heart,  the   eye  sparkles  ;  when   deep 

sorrow  darkens  the  bosom,  the  eye  distils  hot  tears,  "  faster 

than  Arabian  trees  their  medicinal  gum  ;"  when  confidence 

stays   the  mind,  the  eye  looks  forth  proudly  ;  when  love 

fills  the  breast,  the  eye  beams  wilh  glad  sympathy  ;  when 

insanity  desolates  the  brain,  the  eye  roves  wildly  ;  and 

o'er  the  eye  Death  most  eierts  his  might, 


And  hurls  the  spirit  from  her  throne  to  light. 

Thus  through  all  the  epochs  of  human  experience,  tiie  eye 
typifies  the  workings  of  the  soul. 

To  a  warm-hearted  wanderer  through  the  world — to  one 
who  finds  in  his  fellow- beings  the  chief  sources  of  by-way 
pleasure — to  a  benevolent  cosmopolite  who  is  an  adept 
in  eye-language,  it  is  a  delightful  and  constant  resource. 


EYE-LANGUAGE.  373 

He  may  be  a  silent  man  as  far  as  regards  his  organs  of 
speech,  yet  he  is  ever  conversing.  In  a  stage-coach,  by 
one  glance  around,  he  discovers  with  whom  he  can  find 
sympathy.  With  these  he  interchanges  looks  during  the 
journey,  and  enjoys  all  the  delights  of  sociability  with 
none  of  its  trials.  He  reads  family  histories  in  the  eye- 
language  of  their  members.  If  he  but  catch  the  'bonnie 
blue  e'en '  of  the  passing  peasant  girl,  a  cheerful  humor 
is  induced  which  abides  with  him  for  hours.  And  the 
momentary  beaming  of  a  pair  of  dark  lustrous  orbs,  fills 
him  with  high  and  moving  thoughts.  A  glance  to  him 
is  rife  with  expression,  beyond  that  of  his  vernacular 
tongue.  And  thus  gazing  into  these  fountains  for  refresh- 
ment, and  drawing  thence  inspiration  and  solace,  his  eye 
at  length  meets  one,  the  glance  of  which  is  deeply  re- 
sponsive— an  eye  that  shines  like  the  star  of  a  happy 
destiny  into  his  soul,  and  he  is  not  again  contented  till 
the  beautiful  orb  beams  only  for  him,  and  becomes  the 
light  of  his  home.  The  most  interesting  portion  of  his 
studies  in  eye-language  is  completed.  A  modern 
writer,  in  order  to  illustrate  an  almost  indescribable  sen- 
timent, says  « it  was  like  the  eye  of  a  woman  first-loved 
to  the  soul  of  the  poet,' 

There  is  no  lack  of  well-authenticated  instances  to 
prove  the  power  of  eye-language.  An  infuriated  animal 
has  often  been  kept  trembling  at  bay,  by  the  steadfast 
gaze  of  man,  beneath  which  its  own  angry  eye  quailed, 
yet  could  not  turn  aside.  I  knew  a  venerable  man  who 
kept  a  powerful  ruffian  quietly  seated  in  his  little  parlor 
for  an  hour  at  night,  while  the  only  servant  of  his  small 

32 


374  EYE-LANGUAGE. 

household  was  absent  in  quest  of  aid,  merely  hy  silently 
fixing  upon  him  a  fearless  look,  such  as  awed  his  pervert- 
ed heart  and  chained  his  strong  limbs.  Many  a  rebuke 
has  been  silently  but  deeply  conveyed,  by  the  calm  yet 
indignant  glance  of  the  injured.  How  intuitively  does  a 
child  understand  the  slightest  expression  of  its  mother's 
eye!  How  well  do  congenial  beings  comprehend  their 
affinity  before  any  communion,  save  that  of  eye-converse  ! 
Consider,  too,  the  singular  duration  of  the  impression 
imparted  by  this  feature.  The  world  abounds  with  minute 
symbols.  Each  small  and  exquisite  flower,  gem  or  in- 
sect,  addresses  the  sense  of  the  beautiful ;  yet  they  inter- 
est but  for  a  moment.  What  mofe  expressive  similitude 
has  poetry  found  for  the  stars,  than  *  angels'  eyes  1 '  The 
living  gem  of  nature  is  the  eye,  and  how  like  a  spell 
doth  its  language  haunt  us  !  Even  in  the  pictures  of  the 
old  masters,  the  effect  is  often  centered  in  the  expression 
of  this  single  organ.  What  fanciful  man,  having  an 
inkling  of  superstition  within  him,  has  not  sometimes 
imagined  a  portrait  animated  with  life  ?  Shroud  the  eyes, 
and  the  fantasy  is  gone.  It  has  been  finally  remarked 
of  Titian's  portraits  that  they  look  at  us  more  than  we  at 
them.  We  may  forget  the  countenance  of  a  friend  from 
whom  we  are  divided,  in  many  respects  ;  but  if  our 
interest  has  ever  been  truly  awakened  in  a  fellow-being, 
the  eye-language  of  the  individual  can  scarcely  escape  our 
memories.  Who  cannot  recall,  though  he  may  not  de- 
scribe, the  eye-language  with  which  a  gifted  man,  under 
some  strong  inspiration,  has  uttered  a  memorable  thought, 
or  that  v^ith  which  one  near  and  dear  to  him  has  breathed 


EYE-LANGUAGE.  375 

aught  of  deep  interest  to  his  ear  1  The  dignity  of  self- 
possessed  thought  was  in  the  eye  of  Paul,  ere  his  words 
affected  Festus.  The  beaming  glance  of  the  Grecian  mo- 
ther pointed  outher  jewelsbefore  her  lips  proclaimed  them. 
The  unfortunate  know  a  friend  and  are  re-assured,  the 
timid  recognise  a  master  spirit  and  are  nerved,  and  the 
guilty  know  their  accuser  and  quail,  at  the  first  momentary 
meeting  of  their  gaze.  Beware  of  the  man  whose  eye 
you  can  never  meet. 

Correggio  excelled  in  painting  downcast  eyes  ;  those 
of  AUston's  pictures  are  remarkable  for  their  grey,  intel- 
lectual expression.  The  St.  Cecilia  of  Raphael  probably 
presents  the  best  instance  in  the  art,  of  the  upturned  eyes 
of  inspiration.  Eye-langu;ige  is  richly  illustrated  in  the 
pages  of  Shakspeare.  What  an  idea  is  given  of  its  per- 
version in  Lear's  adjuration  to  the  unfortunate  Gloster  : — 

Get  thee  glass  eyes  ; 
And  like  a  scurvy  politician,  seem 
To  see  the  things  thou  dost  not. 

Addressing  Regan,  he  says  of  Goneril,  '  her  eyes  are 
fierce,  but  thine  do  comfort  and  not  burn.'  Cordelia 
envies  not  their  '  still  soliciting  eyes'  and  her  more  hon- 
est orbs,  at  length,  prove  their  sincerity,  by  shedding 
'  tears  as  pearls  from  diamonds  dropp'd.'  Othello  when 
first  awoke  to  jealousy,  in  order  to  satisfy  his  doubts,  ex- 
claims to  Desdemona,  '  let  me  see  your  eyes  !'  Alas  ! 
that  he  did  not  credit  their  truthful  expression.  Fear,  too,* 
is  strongly  evinced  by  the  same  wondrous  organs.  In 
the  awfal  hints  the  Gh  )st  gives  Hainlet  of  •  that  undiscov- 
ed  country,'  among  the  effects  prophecied  from  a  more  full 


376  EYE-LAKGUAGE. 

revelation,  is  to  make  his  *  eyes  like  stars  start  from  their 
spheres.'  In  some  eyes,  the  bard  bids  us  behold  'a  lurk- 
ing devil,'  in  others  *  love's  richest  book,' — in  the  poet's 
'  a  fine  frenzy  ;'  and,  be  it  remembered,  it  was  upon  the 
eyes  that  that  Puck  was  ordered  to  squeeze  the  little  purple 
flower.  Perdita  with  her  fine  imagination,  could  find  no 
better  similitude  for  '  violets  dim  '  than  '  the  lids  of  Juno's 
eyes.'  Prospero  exultingly  declares,  when  Ferdinand 
and  Miranda  meet,  « at  the  first  glance,  they  have  chang- 
ed eyes.'     Hear  Olivia  in  Twelfth  Night : 

Methinks  T  feel  this  youth's  perfections 
With  an  invisible  and  subtle  stealth, 
To  creep  in  at  mine  eyes. 

What  poet  has  presented  such  an  image  of  the  closed 
eyes  of  beauty  as  that  contained  in  lachimo's  soliloquy 
over  the  sleeping  Imogen  ? — 

'  the  flame  o'  the  taper 
Bows  towards  her,  and  would  underpeep  her  lids 
To  see  th'  enclosed  lights  now  canopied 
"With  blue  of  Heaven's  own  tinct.' 

The  prominent  part  this  miraculous  little  globe  per- 
forms in  love,  is  indicated  by  Romeo  in  Capulet's  gar- 
den ; 

*  She  speaks,  yet  she  says  nothing ;  what  of  that  ? 
Her  eye  discourses,  I  will  answer  it.' 

And  when  Juliet  warns  him  of  her  kinsman's  designs, 
he  ardently  exclaims, — 

'  Alack  !  there  hes  more  peril  in  thine  eye. 

Than  twenty  of  their  swords  ;  look  thou  but  sweet, 

And  I  am  proof  against  their  enmity.' 


EYE. LANGUAGE.  377 

The  fair  object  of  his  passion,  as  if  to  reciprocate  the 
sentiment,  upon  the  idea  of  his  death,  cries  out. — 

*  To  prison  eyes  !  ne'er  look  on  liberty  !' 

Wolsey  anticipated  his  downfall  from  the  glance  of 
King  Henry  ; — "  ruin  leaped  from  his  eyes."  Faulcon- 
bridge,  as  the  favors  of  fortune  depart  from  King  John, 
bids  him 

Let  not  the  world  see  fear  and  sad  distrust 
Govern  the  motions  of  a  kingly  eye. 

Biron,  in  Love's  Labors  Lost,  in  balancing  the  advan- 
tages of  book-lore  and  eye-language,  declares — 

From  women's  eye  this  doctrine  I  derive  : 
They  are  the  ground,  the  books,  the  academies, 
From  whence  doth  spring  the  true  Promethean  fire. 
For  where  is  any  author  in  the  world, 
Teaches  such  beauty  as  a  woman's  eye  ? 

How  finely  is  the  moral  expression  of  the  eye  suggest- 
ed by  the  Friar  who  advocates  the  innocence  of  Hero  ;— 

*  in  her  eye  there  hath  appeared  a  fire, 


To  burn  the  errors  that  these  princes  hold 
Against  her  maiden  truth. 

Bassanio  augurs  his  success  with  Portia  because,  he 
says 

Sometimes  from  her  eyes 
I  did  receive  fair,  speechless  messages. 

And  even  the  incorrigible  Benedick  says  to  Beatrice — 
"  I  will  be  buried  in  thy  eyes."  Phoebe  declares  of  Rosa- 
lind— 

32* 


378  EYE. LANGUAGE. 

'  faster  than  his  tongue 
Did  make  ofience,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up.' 

In  discussing  the  beauty  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  Shel- 
ley suggests  that  the  eyes  of  the  women  of  that  nation, 
on  account  of  their  social  degradation,  « could  not  have 
been  deep  and  intricate  from  the  workings  of  the  mind.' 
Eye-language  is,  indeed,  no  light  test  of  cultivation  ;  of 
native  disposition  it  is  a  most  authentic  reporter.  Hunt, 
in  describing  the  hero  of  Rimini,  alludes  with  singular 
beauty,  to  the 

'  easy  dignity  there  lies 
In  the  frank  lifting  of  his  cordial  eyes.' 

Who  has  not  realized  the  power  of  Byron's  simile — 
*  like  the  light  of  a  dark  eye  in  woman  V  Falstaff  vaunts 
of  Page's  wife  « sometimes  the  beam  of  her  view  gilded 
my  foot,  sometimes  my  portly  belly.'  Uncle  Toby's  dan- 
gerous experiment  in  the  sentry-box  is  well-known ;  and 
what  a  holy  guidance  Petrarch  found  in  the  eyes  of 
Laura ! 

Gentil  mia  donna,  io  veggio 

Nel  mover  de  'vostri  occhi  un  dolce  lame 

Che  mi  mostra  la  via  che  al  ciel  conduce. 

An  old  dramatist  has  this  conceit ; — 

A  smile  shoots  graceful  upvi'ard  from  her  eyes, 
As  if  they  had  gained  a  victory  o'er  g'ief ; 
And  with  it  many  beams  twisted  themselves, 
Upon  whose  golden  threads  the  angels  walk 
To  and  again  from  heaven. 


EYE-LANGUAGE.  379 

Eye-language  in  its  sweetest  manifestations,  is  unfor- 
tunately liable  to  change,  like  every  thing  delightful  upou 
this  earth.  Touching  this,  a  bacheloric  essayist  of  some 
note,  thus  reasoneth  : — '  Ask  the  married  man  who  has 
been  so  but  a  short  time,'if  those  blue  eyes,  where,  during 
many  years  of  anxious  courtship,  truth,  sweetness,  sereni- 
iy  seemed  to  be  written  in  characters  which  could  not  be 
misunderstood,  ask  him  if  the  characters  they  now  con- 
vey, be  exactly  the  same  ?  if  for  truth,  he  does  not  read  a 
dull  virtue  (the  mimic  of  constancy)  which  changes  not 
only  because  it  wants  the  judgment  to  make  a  preference  ? 
if  for  sweetness,  he  does  not  read  a  stupid  habit  of  being 
pleased  at  everything,  if  for  sincerity  he  does  not  read  ani- 
mal tranquillity,  the  dead  pool  of  the  heart,  which  no  breeze 
of  passion  can  stir  into  health.' 

According  to  Burke,  clearness  has  much  to  do  with  the 
beauty  of  the  eye,  and  a  languid  movement  of  the  organ  is 
most  fascinating.  Thus  Venus  is  represented  with  droop- 
ing lids.  It  is  observable  that  while  intense  thought  is  in- 
dictated  by  a  fixed  gaze,  pleasurable  emotions,  especially  of 
a  quiet  kind,  induce  the  lids  to  fall  somewhat,  while  the  orb 
gently  rolls.  A  naturalist  once  gave  me  a  most  vivid 
description  of  a  species  of  eagle  common  in  the  West, 
the  vibration  of  whose  eye  corresponded  precisely  with  that 
of  the  second  hand  of  an  old-fashioned  clock.  Whoever 
has  attentively  watched  the  progress  of  a  bust  under  the 
hand  of  the  modeller,  must  have  realized  the  importance 
of  shape  in  giving  its  peculiar  character  to  the  eye.  In- 
deed, the  skill  of  an  artist  may  be  estimated,  in  no  small 
degree,  by  his  success  in  this  regard.     Inferior  sculptors 


380  EYE. LANGUAGE. 

generally  fail  in  representing  nice  distinctions  in  the  form 
of  the  individual  eye,  which  once  caught,  gives  it  even  in 
the  cold  and  colorless  marble,  a  life-like  appearance. 

Richly  expressive  as  is  the  human  eye,  the  depths  and 
gradations  of  its  language  are  not  to  be  lightly  scanned. 
Men  of  the  most  profound  sentiment  not  unfrequently  wear 
an  aspect  of  indifference,  because  common  life  awakens 
not  their  spirits.  We  are  often  startled  by  the  eye-lan- 
guage of  such  persons,  from  the  intensity  with  which  it 
breaks  from  the  dimness  of  habitual  reserve.  I  remember 
two  nobly  endowed  individuals — devoted  to  very  different 
pursuits — whose  eyes  are  seldom  lifted  from  the  down- 
ward gaze  of  meditation.  1  have  often  remarked  the  effect 
upon  their  whole  aspect,  when,  under  the  excitement  of  a 
happy  thought,  they  raise  their  eyes  from  their  veiled  abodes. 
The  sudden  rising  of  a  smiling  star  in  a  monotonous  sky, 
or  the  quick  gleaming  of  a  sunbeam  athwart  a  dim  land- 
scape, could  not  be  more  electrical.  We  are  told  of  Cole- 
ridge, that  in  moments  of  intense  abstraction,  his  eyes 
were  so  void  of  language  as  to  appear  almost  senseless  ; 
yet  in  an  expressive  mood  they  were  proverbially  eloquent. 
And  it  is  said  of  Schiller,  "his  deportment,  his  gait,  the 
mould  of  his  limbs,  his  least  motion  was  dignified  and 
grand,  07ily  his  eyes  were  soft, "  Whoever  remarked  the  eye 
of  Spurzheim  when  he  spoke  of  '  the  little  beings,' — child- 
ren,  must  have  realized  the  mildness  and  warmth  of  his 
benevolence.  I  can  never  forget  the  conception  of  the 
power  of  eye-language  which  dawned  upon  me,  on  seeing 
an  Italian  vocalist,  at  the  very  climax  of  an  opera,  suffer  the 
melody  to  die  away,  and  look  the  intense  feeling  of  the 


EYE-LANGUAGE.  381 

moment  so  effectively  as  to  visibly  impress  the  silent 
multitude.  Having  heard  much  of  the  eye-language  of 
an  accomplished  lady,  I  was  several  times  at  great  pains 
to  observe,  but  was  invariably  unsuccessful.  The  con- 
versation in  each  instance,  had  been  of  a  general  nature, 
which  helped  to  reconcile  me  to  the  disappointment.  Be- 
ing soon  after  possessed  of  some  circumstances  of  the 
lady's  history  which  gave  me  a  clue  to  her  inward  experi- 
ence, I  managed  on  the  next  opportunity  to  strike  the 
'  electric  chain,'  and  draw  her  into  a  brief  but  touching 
narration.  The  gradual  increase  of  expression  and  even- 
tual melting  gaze  induced  by  the  excitement,  was  more 
moving  than  any  pathos  of  mere  words  or  circumstance 
that  I  ever  knew. 

The  comparative  dearth  of  eye-language  in  this  coun- 
try is  lamentably  significant  of  the  narrow  sway  of  the 
Ideal,  and  the  rarity  of  fresh  and  spontaneous  self- 
development.  Exceptions,  many  and  brilliant,  there 
doubtless  are  ; — but  the  traveller  who  has  been  wont  to 
note  the  eloquent  activity  and  profundity  of  expression  of 
the  eye  in  most  of  the  continental  countries,  will  feel,  as 
he  wanders  about  the  new  world,  a  difference,  not  to  say 
a  deficiency,  in  this  respect.  The  guarded  expression, 
the  waving,  the  indifferent  or  at  best  merely  brisk  tenor 
of  eye-language  among  the  busy  men  around  him,  cannot 
escape  his  notice.  And  when  from  beneath  a  fair  brow, 
or  in  the  glance  of  an  enthusiast,  the  mystic  organ  speaks 
with  unwonted  freedom  and  effect,  he  feels  revived  as  by 
a  fondly-remembered  tune.  Beautiful  are  the  workings  of 
the  mystic  and  microscopic  machine.     The  flowers  and 


382  EYE-LANGUAGE. 

the  stars  speak  a  moving  language  ;  but  from  the  eye 
beams  what  will  endure  when  fragrance  and  light  are  no 
more.  The  curious  characters  of  written  language — bar- 
ren words  treasured  up  by  lexicographers,  and  arbitrarily 
decreed — the  lovelier  hieroglyphics  which  bespangle  the 
sky,  or  deck  the  fields, — what  are  they  compared  with  the 
more  subtle  signs  which  beam  in  the  visual  organs — the 
breathings  of  the  soul,  in  that 

"  Bright  ball  on  which  the  spirit  sate 
Through  life,  and  looked  out  in  its  various  moods 
Of  gentleness  and  joy  and  love  and  hope, 
And  gained  this  frail  flesh  credit  in  the  world.' ' 


ART    AND  ARTISTS. 


1  WAS  struck,  recently,  with  an  unfinished  sketch  by  a 
young  artist,  who  has  since  lost  his  reason  from  the  in- 
tense activity  of  a  rarely-gifted,  but  ill-balanced  mind.  It 
struck  me  as  an  eloquent  symbol  of  his  inward  experi- 
ence— a  touching  comment  upon  his  unhappy  fate.  He 
called  the  design  « an  artist's  dream.  It  represented  the 
studio  of  a  painter.  An  easel,  a  pallet,  a  port-folio,  and 
other  insignia  of  the  art,  are  scattered  with  professional 
negligence,  about  the  room.  At  a  table  sits  the  youthful 
painter,  his  head  resting  heavily  on  his  arm,  buried  in 
sleep.  From  the  opposite  side  of  the  canvass  the  shadowy 
outlines  of  a  long  procession  seemed  winding  along,  the 
figures  growing  more  distinct  as  they  recede.  In  the 
front  rank  and  with  more  defined  countenances,  walk 
the  most  renowned  of  the  old  masters,  and  pressing  hard 
upon  their  steps,  the  humbler  members  of  that  noble  bro- 
therhood. It  was  a  mere  sketch — unfinished,  but  dimly 
mapped  out,  like  the  career  of  its  author,  yet  full  of  pro- 
mise, and  indicative  of  invention.  It  revealed,  too,  the 
dreams  of  fame  that  were  agitating  that  young  heart ;  and 


384  ART    AND    ARTISTS. 

proved  that  his  spirit  was  with  the  honored  leaders  of  the 
art.     This  sketch  is  a  symbol  of  the  life  of  a  true  artist. 
Upon  his  fancy  throng  the  images  of  those  whose  names 
are  immorial.     It  is  his  day-dream  to  emulate  the  great 
departed — to  bless  his   race — to  do  justice  to  himself. 
The  early  difficulties  of  their  career,   and  the  excitement 
of  their  experience,  give  to  the  lives  of  artists  a  singular 
interest.     West's  first  expedient  to  obtain  a  brush — Bar- 
ry's proud  poverty,  Fuseli's  vigils  over  Dante  and  Milton  ; 
Reynolds,  the  centre  of  a  gifted  society ;  the  '  devout  quiet* 
of  Flaxman's  home,  and  similar  memories,   crowd   upon 
the  mind,  intent  upon  their  works.     Existence,  with  them 
is  a  long  dream.     I  have  ever  honored  the  fraternity,  and 
loved  their  society,  and  musing  upon    the  province  they 
occupy  in  the  business   of  the  world,  I  seem  to  recog- 
nize a  new  thread  of  beauty  interlacing  the  mystic  tissue 
of  life.     In  speaking  of  the  true  artist,  I  allude  rather  to 
his  principles  of  action,  than  to  his  absolute  power  of  ex- 
ecution.    Mediocrity,  indeed,  is  sufHcienily  undesirable 
in  every  pursuit,  and  is  least  endurable,  perhaps,  in  those 
with  which  we  naturally  associate  the  highest  ideas  of  ex- 
cellence.    But  when  we  look  upon  artists  as  a  class — 
when  we  attempt  to  estimate  their  influence  as  a  profes- 
sion,  our  attention  is  rather  drawn  to  the  tendency  of  their 
pursuit,  and  to  the  general  characteristics  of  its  votaries. 
"  Man  !"  says  Carlyle,    "  it  is  not  thy  works  which  are 
all  mortal,  infinitely  little,  and  the  greatest  no  greater  than 
the  least,   but  only  the  spirit  thou  workest  in,  that  can 
have  worth  or  continuance."     In  this  point  of  view,  the 
artist,  who  has  adopted  his  vocation  from  a  native  impulse, 


ART    AND    ARTISTS.  385 

who  is  a  sincere  worshipper  of  the  beautiful  aud  the  pic- 
turesque, exerts  au  insensible,  but  not  less  real  influence 
upon  society,  although  he  may  not  rank  among  the  high- 
est, or  float  on  the  stream  of  popularity.  Let  this  console 
the  neglected  artist.  Let  this  thought  comfort  him,  pos- 
sessed of  one  talent — if  the  spirit  he  worketh  in  is  true,  he 
shall  not  work  in  vain.  Upon  some  mind  his  converse 
will  ingraft  the  elements  of  taste.  In  some  heart  will  his 
lonely  devotion  to  an  innocent  but  unprofitable  object,  awa- 
ken sympathy.  In  his  very  isolation — in  the  solitude  of  his 
undistinguished  and  unpampered  lot,  shall  he  preach  a  si- 
lent homily  to  the  mere  devotee  of  gain,  and  hallow  to  the 
eye  of  many  a  philanthropist,  the  scenes  of  bustling  and 
heartless  traffic. 

I  often  muse  upon  the  life  of  the  true  artist,  until  it  re- 
deems to  my  mind  the  more  prosaic  aspects  of  human  ex- 
istence. It  is  deeply  interesting  to  note  this  class  of  men 
in  Italy.  There  they  breathe  a  congenial  atmosphere. 
Often  subsisting  upon  the  merest  pittance,  indulging  in 
every  vagary  of  costume,  they  wander  over  the  land,  and 
yield  themselves  freely  to  the  spirit  of  adventure,  and  the 
luxury  of  art.  They  are  encountered  with  their  portfolios, 
in  the  midst  of  the  lone  campagna,  beside  the  desolate 
ruin,  before  the  masterpieces  of  the  gallery,  and  in  the 
Cathedral-chapel.  They  roam  the  streets  of  those  old  and 
picturesque  cities  at  night,  congregate  at  the  caffe,  and 
sing  cheerfully  in  their  studios.  They  seem  a  privileged 
class,  and  manage,  despite  their  frequent  poverty,  to  ap- 
propriate all  the  delights  of  Italy.  They  take  long  tours 
on  foot,  in  search  of  the  picturesque ;  engage  in  warm 
33 


386  ART    AND    ARTISTS. 

discussions  together,  on  questions  of  art,  and  lay  every 
town  they  visit,  under  contribution  for  some  little  romance. 
It  is  a  rare  pastime  to  listen  to  the  love-tales  and  wild 
speculations  of  these  gay  wanderers.     The  ardent  youih 
from  the  Rhine,  the  pensioner  from  Madrid,  and  the  mer- 
curial Parisian,  smoke  their  pipes  in  concert,  and  wrangle 
good-humoredly  over  national  peculiarities,  as  they  copy 
in  the  palaces.     Thorwaldsen  is  wont  to  call  his  birth-day 
the  day  on  which  he  entered  Rome.     And  when  we  con- 
sider to  what  a  new  existence  that  epoch  introduces  the 
artist,  the   expression  is  scarcely  metaphorical.     It  is  the 
dawning  of  a  fresher  and  a  richer  life,  the  day  that  makes 
him  acquainted  with  the  wonders  of  the  Vatican,  the  palace 
halls  lined   with  the  trophies  of  his  profession,  the  daily 
walk   on  the  Pincian,  the  solemn  loneliness  of  the  sur- 
rounding fields,  the  beautiful  ruins,  the  long,  dreamy  day, 
and  all  the  poetry  of  life  at  Rome.     Whoever  has  fre- 
quently encountered  Thorwaldsen  in  the  crowded  saloon, 
or  visited  him  on  a  Sabbath  morning,  must  have  read  in 
his  bland  countenance  and  benignant  smile,  the  record  of 
his  long  and  pleasant  sojourn  in  the  Eternal  city.     To 
him  it  has  been  a  theatre  of  triumph  and  benevolence. 
Everywhere  in  Italy  are  seen   the  enthusiastic   pilgrims 
of  art,   who  have  roamed  thither  from  every  part  of  the 
globe.     Each  has  his  tale  of  self  denial,  and  his  vision  of 
fame.     At  the  shrines  of  Art  they  kneel  together.     Year 
by  year  they  collect,  in  the  shape  of  sketches  and  copies, 
the  cherished  memorials  of  their  visit.     A  few  linger  on, 
until  habit  makes  the  country  almost  necessary  to  their 
existence,  and  they  establish  themselves  in  Florence  or 


ART   AND    ARTISTS.  387 

Rome.  Those  whom  necessity  ohliges  to  depart,  tear 
themselves,  full  of  tearful  regret,  from  the  genial  clime. 
Many  who  come  to  labor,  content  themselves  with  admi- 
ring, and  glide  into  dreamy  habits  from  which  want, 
alone,  can  rouse  them.  Others  become  the  most  devoted 
students,  and  toil  with  unremitting  euergy,  A  French 
lady,  attached  to  the  Bourbon  interest,  has  long  dwelt  in 
Italy,  intent  upon  a  monument  to  Charles  X.  Her  talents 
for  sculpture  are  of  a  high  order,  and  her  enthusiasm  for 
royalty,  extreme.  Her  hair  is  cut  short  like  that  of  a  man, 
and  she  wears  a  dark  robe,  similar  to  that  with  which  Por- 
tia appears  on  the  stage.  Instances  of  a  like  self-devo- 
tion to  a  favorite  project  in  art,  are  very  common  among 
those  who  are  voluntary  exiles  in  that  fair  land.  One 
reason  why  the  most  famous  portraits  of  the  old  masters, 
such  as  the  Fornarina  of  Raphael  and  La  Bella  of  Titian, 
are  so  life-like  and  inspire  so  deep  a  sense  of  their  authen- 
ticity, is  doubtless  that  the  originals  were  objects  of  affec- 
tion and  familiar  by  constant  association  and  sympathy, 
to  the  minds  of  the  artists.  This  idea  is  unfolded  in  one 
of  Webster's  plays,  where  the  advantage  of  a  portrait  taken 
without  a  formal  sitting,  is  displayed  with  much  quaint- 
ness  and  beauty  : — 

"  Must  you  have  my  picture  ? 
You  will  enjoin  me  to  a  strange  punishment. 
With  what  a  compell'd  force  a  woman  sits 
While  she  is  drawing!  I  have  noted  divers 
Either  to  feign  a  smile,  or  suck  in  their  Ups, 
To  liave  a  httle  mouth ;  ruffle  the  cheeks 
To  have  the  dimples  seen;  and  so  disorder 
The  face  with  affectation,  at  next  sitting 


388  ART    AND    ARTISTS. 

It  has  not  been  the  same  :  I  have  known  others 
Have  lost  the  entire  fashion  of  their  face 
In  half  an  hour's  sitting, — in  hot  weather, 
The  painting  on  their  face  has  been  so  mellow, 
They  have  left  the  poor  man  harder  work  by  half 
To  mend  the  copy  he  wrought  by  :  but,  indeed. 
If  ever  I  should  have  mine  drawn  to  the  life, 
I  would  have  a  painter  steal  at  such  a  time 
I  were  devoutly  kneeling  at  my  prayers  ; 
There  is  then  a  heavenly  beauty  in't,  the  soul 
Moves  in  the  superfices." 

Though  the  mere  tyros  in  the  field  of  letters  and  of  art, 
those  who  pursue  these  liberal  aims  without  either  the 
genius  that  hallows,  or  the  disinterestedness  that  redeems 
them,  are  not  worthy  of  encouragement — let  respect  await 
the  artist  whose  life  and  conversation  multiply  the  best 
fruits  of  his  profession — whose  precept  and  example  are 
effective,  although  nature  may  have  endowed  him  with  but 
a  limited  practical  skill.  There  is  a  vast  diflerence  be- 
tween a  mere  pretender  and  one  whose  ability  is  actual 
but  confined.  A  man  with  the  soul  of  an  artist,  is  a  valu. 
able  member  of  society,  although  his  eye  for  color  may  be 
imperfect,  or  his  drawing  occasionally  careless.  There 
is,  in  truth,  no  more  touching  spectacle,  than  is  presented 
by  a  human  being  whose  emotions  are  vivid,  but  whose 
expression  is  fettered  ;  in  whose  mind  is  the  conception 
which  his  hand  struggles  in  vain  to  embody,  or  his  lips 
to  utter.  It  is  a  contest  between  matter  and  spirit,  which 
angels  might  pity.  It  is  this  very  struggle,  on  a  broad 
scale,  which  it  is  the  great  purpose  of  all  art  and  all  liter- 
ature to  relieve.  '<  It  is  in  me,  and  it  shall  come  out,'* 
said  Sheridan,  after  his  first  failure  as  an  orator*     And  the 


ART    AP<D    ARTISTS.  389 

trial  of  Warren  Hastings  brought  it  out.  If  we  could  ana. 
lize  the  pleasure  derived  from  the  poet  and  painter,  I  sup- 
pose it  would  partake  much  of  the  character  of  relief.  A 
great  tragedy  unburdens  the  heart.  In  fancy  we  pour  forth 
the  love,  and  partake  of  the  sacrifice.  And  so  art  gratifies 
the  imagination  by  reflecting  its  pictares.  The  lovely 
landscape,  the  faithful  portrait,  the  good  historical  compo- 
sition, repeat,  with  more  or  less  authenticity,  the  story 
that  fancy  and  memory  have  long  held  in  a  less  de- 
fined shape.  The  rude  figures  on  old  tapestry,  the 
miniature  illustrations  of  ancient  missals,  the  arabesques 
that  decoiate  the  walls  of  the  Alhambra,  are  so  many  early 
efforts  to  the  same  end.  The  inventive  designer,  the  gift- 
ed  sculptor,  the  exquisite  vocalist,  are  ministers  of  human- 
ity, orda'ned  by  Heaven.  The  very  attempt  to  fulfil  such 
high  service,  so  it  be  made  in  all  truthfulness,  is  worthy 
of  honor.  And  where  it  is  partially  fulfilled,  there  is  oc- 
casion for  gratitude.  Hence  I  cannot  but  regard  the  wor- 
thy members  of  such  professions  with  peculiar  interest. 
They  have  stepped  aside  from  the  common  thoroughfare, 
to  cultivate  the  flowers  by  the  wayside.  They  have  left 
the  great  loom  of  common  industry,  to  weave  "such  stuff" 
as  dreams  are  made  of."  Their  office  is  to  keep  alive  in 
human  hearts,  a  sense  of  the  grand  in  combination,  the 
symmetrical  in  form,  the  beautiful  in  color,  the  touching 
in  sound,  the  interesting  in  aspect  of  all  outward  things. 
They  illustrate  even  to  the  senses,  that  truth  which  is  so 
often  forgotten — that  man  does  not  live  by  bread  alone. 
As  the  sunlight  is  gorgeously  reflected  by  the  clouds, 
they  tint  even  the  tearful  gloom  of  mortal  destiny  with  the 
33* 


390  ART    AND    ARTISTS. 

warm  hues  of  beauty.  Artists  instruct  and  refine  the 
senses.  With  images  of  grace — with  smiles  of  tender- 
ness— with  figures  of  noble  proportions — with  tones  of 
celestial  melody,  they  teach  the  careless  heart  to  distin- 
guish and  rejoice  in  the  richest  attractions  of  the  world. 
He  who  has  pondered  over  the  landscapes  of  Salvator, 
will  thenceforth  pierce  the  tangled  woodlands  with  a 
keener  glance,  and  mark  a  ship's  hulk  upon  the  stocks, 
with  unwonted  interest.  John  of  Bologna's  Mercury, 
will  reveal  to  him  the  poetry  of  motion,  and  the  Niobe  or 
the  statue  ofLorenzo,inthe  Medici  Chapel,  make  him  aware 
how  greatly  mere  attitude  can  express  the  eloquence  of 
grief.  The  vocalism  of  a  prima  donna,  will  unveil  the 
poetical  labyrinths  of  sound.  Claude  will  make  him  sensi- 
ble of  masses  of  golden  haze  before  unobserved,  and  long 
scintillations  of  sunlight,  gleaming  across  the  western 
sky.  The  neck  and  hair  of  woman  will  be  better  appre- 
ciated after  studying  Guide  ;  and  the  characteristic  in 
physiognomy  become  more  striking  from  familiarity  with 
the  portraits  of  Vandyke.  Hogarth,  in  the  humble  walk 
he  adopted,  not  only  successfully  satirized  the  vices  and 
follies  of  London,  but  gave  the  common  people  no  small 
insight  into  the  humorous  scenes  of  their  sphere,  and  Gains- 
borough attracted  attention  to  many  a  feature  of  rustic 
beauty.  Pasta,  Catalaui  and  Malibran,  have  opened  a 
new  world  in  music  to  countless  souls,  and  Mrs.  Wood 
has  produced  an  era  in  the  musical  taste  of  our  land.  The 
artist  thus  instructs  our  vision  and  hearing.  But  his 
teachings  end  not  here.  From  his  portraitures  of  martyr- 
doms, of  the  heroic  in  human  history,  of  the  beautiful  in 


ART    AND    ARTISTS.  391 

human  destiny,  whether  pencilled  or  sung,  he  breathes 
into  the  soul  new  self  respect,  and  moral  refinement. 
We  look  at  the  Magrialene  prostrate  upon  the  earth,  press- 
ing back  the  luxuriant  hair  from  her  lovely  temples,  her 
melancholy  eyes  bent  downward,  and  the  lesson  of  re- 
pentance, the  blessedness  of  Moving  much,'  sinks  at  once 
into  the  heart.  We  muse  upon  Raphael's  Holy  Family, 
and  realize  anew  the  sanctity  of  maternal  love.  We  com. 
mune  with  the  long,  silent  line  of  portraits — the  gifted  and 
the  powerful  of  the  earth,  and  read,  at  a  glance,  the  most  stir, 
ring  chronicles  of  war  and  genius,  of  effort  and  suffering, 
of  glory  and  death.  We  drink  in  the  tender  harmony  of 
Bellini,  and  the  fountains  of  sentiment  are  renewed. 

The  golden  age  of  Art  and  Artists,  the  splendid  era  that 
dawned  early  in  the  fifteenth  century  is  one  of  the  most 
romantic  episodes  in  human  history.  The  magnifi- 
cent scale  of  princely  patronage,  the  brilliant  succession 
of  unsurpassed  productions,  and  the  trials  and  triumphs  of 
artists  that  signalize  that  epoch,  place  it  in  the  very  sun- 
light of  poetry.  There  is  something  in  (he  long  lives  of 
those  eminent  men  toiling  to  illustrate  the  annals  of  faith, 
pursuing  the  beautiful,  under  the  banner  of  religion,  that 
gives  an  air  of  primeval  happiness  to  human  toil,  and 
robs  the  original  curse  of  its  bitterness.  The  lives  of  the 
old  masters  partake  of  the  ideal  character  of  their  creations. 
Scarcely  one  of  their  biographies  is  devoid  of  adven- 
^  turoMS  interest  or  pathetic  incident.  Can  we  not  discov- 
er in  the  tone  of  their  works,  somewhat  of  their  experi- 
ence and  character?  As  the  poet's  effusions  are  often 
unintentionally  tinged  with  his  moral  peculiarities,  is  there 


892  ART    AND    ARTISTS. 

not  a  certain  identity  of  spirit  between  the  old  artists  and 
their  works  1  Leonardo  supped  with  peasants  and  rela- 
ted  humorous  stories  to  make  them  laugh,  that  he  might 
study  the  expression  of  rustic  delight;  by  writing,  con- 
versation, and  personal  instruction,  promoted  that  most  im- 
portant revolution,  the  reconciliation  of  nicety  of  finish 
with  nobleness  of  design  and  unity  of  color,  and  having 
thus  prepared  the  way  for  a  higher  and  more  perfect  school 
of  art,  expired  in  the  embrace  of  a  king.  The  thought 
of  his  efforts  as  a  reformer,  and  the  precursor  of  the  great 
prophets  of  art,  imparts  a  grateful  sentiment  to  the  mind  of 
the  spectator  who  dwells  upon  his  Nun  in  the  Pitti-palace, 
the  Herodias  of  the  Tribune,  and  the  Last  Supper  at  Milan. 
In  the  variety  of  expression  displayed  in  the  various  heads 
and  attitudes  of  this  last  work,  we  recognize  the  effect  of 
Leonardo's  studies  from  nature.  It  is  singular  that  the  chief 
monument  to  his  fame,  should  of  all  his  works,  have  met 
with  the  greatest  vicissitudes.  The  feet  were  cut  off  to 
enlarge  the  refectory,  upon  the  walls  of  which  it  is  painted, 
and  a  door  has  been  made  through  the  finest  part.  It  is  with  a 
melancholy  feeling,  that  the  travellergazes  upon  its  dim  and 
corroded  hues,  and  vainly  strives  to  trace  the  clear  outlines 
of  a  work  made  familiar  by  so  many  engravings.  From 
Leonardo's  precision  of  ideas,  the  strictness  of  taste 
that  marked  his  personal  habits,  and  his  attachment  to 
principles  of  art,  something  even  of  the  mathematician  is 
recognized  in  his  works.  It  might  be  argued  from  his 
pictures,  that  he  was  no  sloven  and  was  fond  of  rules. 
Titian's  long  career  of  triumph  and  prosperity,  was  cheer- 
ful and  rich  as  the  hues  of  his  canvass,  dream-like  as  his 


ART    AND    ARTISTS.  393 

own  Venice  ;  his  fair  and  bright  haired  mistress,  his  hon- 
ors and  wealth,  contrasting  strangely  with  a  death  amid 
pestilence  and  desertion,  come  over  the  memory  like  a 
vivid  picture.  In  infancy,  Titian  colored  a  print  of  the 
Virgin  with  the  juice  of  flowers,  in  a  masterly  manner. 
In  early  youth  he  deserted  his  teachers  for  the  higher 
school  nature  opened  to  him.  The  passers  uncovered  to 
his  portrait  of  Paul  III.,  as  it  rested  on  a  terrace  at  Rome, 
deeming  it  alive  ;  and  when  Charles  V.  of  Spain  sat  to 
him  for  the  last  portrait,  he  exclaimed,  "  This  is  the  third 
time  I  have  been  made  immortal!"  These  exuberant  to- 
kens of  contemporary  appreciation — these,  and  countless 
other  indications  of  a  life  of  success  and  enjoyment,  seem 
woven  into  the  fleshy  tints  of  his  Venus,  and  laugh  out  in 
the  bright  faces  of  Flora  and  La  Bella.  And  Corretrgio's 
sad  story  !  His  lowly  toil  as  a  potter,  the  electric  joy 
with  which  the  conviction  came  home  to  him,  that  he, 
too,  was  a  painter ; — his  lonely  struggle  with  obscure 
poverty  ; — his  almost  utter  want  of  appreciation  and  sym- 
pathy ; — the  limits  of  a  narrow  lot  pressing  upon  so  fine 
a  soul,  and  then  his  rare  achievements  and  bitter  death, — 
worn  down  by  the  weight  of  very  lucre  his  genius  had 
gained, — can  fancy,  in  her  widest  range,  depict  a  more  af- 
fecting picture  of  the  "highest  in  man's  heart  struggling 
vainly  against  the  lowest  in  man's  destiny  ?"  His  Mag- 
dalene, bowed  down,  yet  serene,  sad,  yet  beautiful,  sinful 
yet  forgiven,  is  an  emblem  as  lovely  as  it  is  true,  of  the 
genius  and  fate  of  Correggio.  Salvator  Rosa  has  written 
the  history  of  his  own  lite  in  those  wild  landscapes  he 
loved  so  well.     One  might  have  inferred  his  Neapolitan 


394  ART    AND    ARTISTS. 

origin.  There  is  that  in  his  pictures  that  breathes  of  a 
southern  fancy.  We  there  feel  not  the  chastened  tone  of 
a  Tuscan  mind,  not  the  religious  solemnity  of  a  Roman, 
but  rather  the  half-savage  genius  of  that  singular  region, 
where  the  lazzaroni  sleep  on  the  strand  and  the  fishermen 
grow  swarthy  beneath  the  warmest  sky  of  Italy.  The 
wanderer,  the  lover  of  masquerade,  he  who  mingled  in  the 
revolt  of  Massaniello,  and  roamed  amid  the  gloomy  gran- 
deur of  the  mountains,  speaks  to  us  from  the  canvass  of 
Salvator.  Delicacy  and  affection,  taste  and  sentiment, 
characterize  Raphael's  paintings.  There  is  in  them  that 
refinement  of  tone,  born  only  of  delicate  natures,  such  as 
this  rude  world  often  jars  into  the  insanity  of  an  Ophelia, 
or  bows  to  the  early  tomb  of  a  Kirk  White.  Murillo's 
style  has  been  characterized  as  between  the  Flemish  and 
high  Italian,  and  we  are  told  that,  as  a  man,  he  combined 
rare  simi)licity  of  manners  with  the  greatest  elevation 
and  modesty  of  soul.  Michael  Angelo  has  traced  the  in- 
flexibility of  his  soul  in  the  bust  of  Brutus,  his  self-pos- 
sessed virtue  in  the  calm  grandeur  of  his  muscular  figures. 
One  dreams  over  them  of  stern  integrity  and  noble  self- 
dependence. 

It  is  common  to  talk  of  the  genius  of  artists  as  partak- 
ing of  the  "  fine  frenzy'*  attributed  to  that  of  the  poet. 
The  intense  excitement  which  accompanies  the  process 
of  conception,  is,  however,  comparatively  rare,  with  the 
votaries  of  art.  They  have  this  advantage  over  the  great 
thinker  and  the  earnest  bard — that,  much  of  their  labor  is 
mechanical,  and  calls  rather  for  the  exercise  of  taste  than 
mental  effort.     There  is,  indeed,  a  period  in  every  work 


ART   AND    ARTISTS.  395 

when  imagination  is  greatly  excited  and  the  whole  mind 
fervidly  active,  but  the  painter  and  sculptor  have  many 
intervals  of  repose,  when  physical  dexterity  and  imitative 
skill  are  alone  requisite.  And  when  the  hand  of  the  ar- 
tist has  acquired  that  habitual  power  which  makes  it  ever 
obedient  to  the  will,  when  he  is  perfectly  master  of  the 
whole  machinery  of  his  art,  and  is  confident  of  realizing, 
to  a  great  degree,  his  every  conception,  a  delightful  se- 
renity takes  possession  of  his  soul.  Calm  trust  in  his  own 
resources,  and  the  daily  happiness  of  watching  the  growth 
of  his  work,  induce  a  placid  and  hopeful  mood.  And  when 
his  aim  is  exalted  and  his  success  progressive,  there  are 
few  happier  men.  They  have  an  object,  the  interest  of 
which  familiarity  cannot  lesson  nor  time  dissipate.  They 
follow  an  occupation  delightful  and  serene.  The  atmos- 
phere of  their  vocation  is  above  the  '^  smoke  and  stir  of 
this  dim  spot  that  men  call  earth."  The  graceful,  the 
vivid,  and  the  delicate  elements  of  their  art,  refine  their 
sensibilities  and  elevate  their  views.  Nature  and  life 
minister  to  them  more  richly  than  to  those  who  only 
''poke  about  for  pence.'*  Hence,  methinks,  the  masters 
of  the  art  have  generally  been  remarkable  for  longevity. 
Their  tranquil  occupation,  the  happy  exercise  of  their  fac- 
ulties was  favorable  to  life. 

It  has  been  said  of  Michael  Angelo's  pupils,  that  they 
were  "  nursed  in  the  lap  of  grandeur."  And  it  may  be 
said  of  all  true  artists,  that  they  are  buoyed  up  by  that  spirit 
of  beauty  that  is  so  essential  to  true  happiness.  I  have 
ever  found  in  genuine  artists,  a  remarkable  simplicity 
and  truthfulness  of  character.     There  is  a  repose  about 


396  ART    AND    ARTISTS.    ^ 

them  as  of  men  who  commune  with  something  superior, 
and  for  whom  the  frivolous  idols  of  the  multitude  have  no 
attraction.  I  have  found  them  usually  foud  of  music  and 
if  not  addicted  to  general  literature,  ardently  attached  to 
a  particular  poet.  They  read  so  constantly  the  book  of 
nature,  that  written  lore  is  not  so  requisite  for  them.  The 
human  face,  the  waving  bough,  the  flower  and  the  cloud, 
the  fantastic  play  of  the  smouldering  embers,  nK)onlight 
on  a  cornice,  and  the  vast  imagery  of  dreams,  are  full  of 
teachings  for  them. 

There  is  a  definiteness  in  the  art  of  sculpture,  that  ren- 
ders its  language  more  direct  and  immediate  than  that  of 
painting.  Masses  of  stone  were  revered  as  idols,  in  re- 
mote antiquity ;  and  men  soon  learned  to  hew  them  into 
rude  figures.  When  architecture,  the  elder  sister  of 
sculpture,  had  given  birth  to  temples  of  religion,  the 
statues  of  deities  were  their  chief  ornaments.  Images  of 
domestic  gods  existed  as  early  as  the  twenty-third  century 
before  the  Christian  era.  The  early  Indian  and  Hindoo 
idols,  as  well  as  the  gloomy  sculpture  of  the  Egyptians, 
evidence  how  naturally  the  art  sprung  from  the  human 
mind,  even  before  a  refined  taste  had  developed  its  real 
dignity.  Sculpture  was  a  great  element  of  Grecian 
culture.  In  the  age  of  Pericles,  it  attained  perfection. 
In  the  square  and  the  temple,  on  the  hill-top  and  within 
the  private  dwelling,  the  beautiful  productions  of  the 
chisel  met  the  eye.  They  addressed  every  sentiment  of 
devotion  and  patriotism.  They  filled  the  soul  with  ideals 
of  symmetry  and  grace,  and  the  traces  of  their  silent 
eloquence  were  written  in  the  noble  air,  the  harmonious 


ART    AND    ARTISTS.  397 

costume  and  the  very  forms  of  the  aucient  Greeks.  The 
era  of  ideal  models  and  a  classic  style  passed  away.  In 
the  thirteenth  century,  the  art  revived  in  Italy,  and  there 
are  preserved  some  of  the  noblest  specimens  of  Grecian 
genius,  as  well  as  those  to  which  M.  Angelo  and  his 
countrymen  gave  birth.  The  Apollo  looks  out  upon  the 
sky  of  Rome,  while  the  Venus  "loves  in  stone"  and 
Niobe  bends  over  her  clinging  babe  in  the  Florence  gal- 
lery. Shelley  used  to  say,  that  he  would  value  a  peasant's 
criticism  upon  sculpture,  as  much  as  that  of  the  most 
educated  man.  Form  is,  indeed,  more  easily  judged 
than  color.  There  is  a  certain  vagueness  in  painting, 
while  sculpture  is  palpable,  bold  and  clear.  There  is  a 
severe  nobility  in  the  art ;  its  influence  is  to  calm  and 
elevate  rather  than  excite.  The  Laocoon,  Niobe  and 
Allesaudro  doloroso  are  indeed  expressions  of  passion  ; 
but  they  are  striking  exceptions.  Sculpture  soothes  the 
impetuous  soul.  The  heads  of  the  honored  dead  wear  a 
solemn  dignity.  The  stainless  and  cold  marble  breathes 
a  pure  repose,  stamped  with  the  calm  of  immortality.  In 
walking  through  the  Vatican  by  torch-light,  we  might 
deem  ourselves,  without  much  exercise  of  fancy,  in  a 
world  of  spirits.  The  tall  white  figures  stretching  for- 
ward in  the  gloom,  the  snowy  faces,  upon  which  the  flam- 
beaux glare,  the  winding  drapery  and  the  outstretched 
arm,  strike  the  eye  in  that  artificial  light,  with  a  startling 
look  of  life.  One  feels  like  an  intruder  into  some  hall 
of  death,  or  conclave  of  the  great  departed.  A  good  bust 
is  an  invaluable  memorial ;  it  preserves  the  features  and 
expressions  without  their  temporary  hue.     There  is  as^ 

34 


398  ART    AND    ARTISTS. 

sociated  with  it  the  idea  of  durability   and   exactitude. 
Though  the  most  common  offspring  of  sculpture,  it  is  one 
of  the  rarest  in  perfection.     Few  sculptors  can  copy  na- 
ture so  faithfully  as  to  give  us  the  very  lineaments  wholly 
free  from  caricature  or  embellishment.     Those  who  have 
an  eye  for  the  detail  of  expression,  often  fail  in  general 
effect.     To  copy  the  form  of  the  eye,  the  texture  of  the 
hair,  every  delicate  line  of  the  mouth,  and  yet  preserve 
throughout  an  air  of  veri-similitude  and  that  unity  of 
effect  which  always    exists   in   nature,    is   no   ordinary 
achievement.     The  requisite  talent  must  be  a  native  en- 
dowment;   no  mechanical  dexterity  can  ever  reach  it. 
*,'  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever."     This  sentiment 
spontaneously  fills  the  heart  in  view  of  the  great  products 
of  the  chisel.     We  contemplate  the  Niobe  and  Apollo,  as 
millions  have  before  us,  with  growing  delight  and  the 
most  intense  admiration.     They  have  come  down  to  us 
from  departed  ages,  like  messengers  of  love ;  they  as- 
sure us,  with  touching  eloquence,  that  human  genius  and 
affection,  the  aspirations  and  wants,  the  sorrow  and  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  soul,  were  ever  the  same  ;  they  invoke 
us  to  endure  bravely  and  to  cherish  the  beautiful  and  true, 
as  our  best  heritage.     So  speak  they  and  so  will  they 
speak  to  unborn  generations.     In   the  silent  poetry  of 
their  expressive  forms  lives  a  perennial  sentiment.     They 
keep  perpetual  state,  and  give  the  world  audience,  that  it 
may  feel  the  eternity  of  genius,  and  the  true  dignity  of 
man.     It  is  delightful  to  believe  that  sculpture  is  destined 
to  flourish  among  us.    It  is  truly  the  art  of  a  young  repub- 
lic.    Let  it  perpetuate  the  features  of  our  patriots,  and 


ART    AND    ARTISTS.  399 

people  our  cities  with  images  of  grandeur  and  beauty. 
Worthy  votaries  of  the  art  are  not  wanting  among  us  :  on 
the  banks  of  the  Arno,  they  speak  of  Greenough  and 
Powers  ;  from  the  studios  of  Rome  come  praises  of  Craw- 
ford, and  beside  the  Ohio  is  warmly  predicted  the  fame  of 
Clevenger.  Let  us  cherish  such  followers  of  the  art  with 
true  sympathy  and  generous  patronage.  The  national 
heart  will  not  then  be  wholly  corroded  by  gain,  and  a  few 
places  will  be  kept  green  for  repose  and  refreshment,  upon 
the  great  highway  of  American  life. 


THE    WEATHER. 


I  HAVE  just  parted  with  one  of  those  insensible  beings 
who  profess  perfect  independence  of  the  weather, — a 
class,  one  would  think,  by  their  manner  of  treating  this 
popular  topic,  differently  organized  from  the  majority  of 
mankind.  It  is  really  provoking  to  remark  the  compla- 
cency with  which  they  declare  that  the  atmospheric  vicis- 
situdes  affect  them  not,  that  they  are  too  busy  to  note 
the  course  of  the  wind,  and  that  half  the  time  they  know 
not  whether  it  rains  or  shines  ;  as  if  it  were  a  fit  subject 
for  congratulation — this  unnatural  insusceptibility  to  what 
human  beings  should,  from  their  very  constitution,  con- 
sciously feel.  Much  pleasure  do  these  weather-despisers 
lose.  It  is  true,  they  suffer  not  the  ihroe ;.  but,  be  it  re- 
membered, they  enjoy  not  the  thrill.  Welcome  are  they 
to  their  much  vaunted  indifference  to  the  state  of  the  ele- 
ments. Better,  methinks,  to  suffer  somewhat,  and  even 
fancifully,  from  the  weather,  than  to  be  wrapped  up  in  a 
mantle  of  unconcern — to  walk  forth  regardless  of  the 
temperature,  and  without  any  more  interest  in  the  exis- 
tent face  of  the  heavens,  than  if  they  were  changeless  and 


THE    WEATHER.  401 

Stony,  like  the  mood  of  such  spirits.  This  independence 
*  argues  an  insensibility.'  A  hopeful  token,  in  truth,  is 
a  just  susceptibility  to  the  weather.  There  is  reason  in 
its  universality,  as  a  subject  of  discussion ;  there  is  a  real 
benefit  in  being  alive  to  its  influences.  Dr.  John- 
son indeed,  with  characteristic  hardihood,  boasted  of  his 
immunity  from  '  skyey  influences ;'  but  Milton  confesses 
that  his  poetical  vein  flowed  only  between  the  autumnal 
and  vernal  equinox.  Thomson  declared  his  muse  was 
most  docile  in  the  fall ;  and  Byron  always  felt  most  reli- 
giously disposed  on  a  sunny  day.  Hear  the  stout  Ashyre 
ploughman — 

'  How  Stan'  you  this  blae  eastlin  wind, 
That's  hke  to  blaw  a  body  bUnd  ? 
For  me  my  facuUies  are  frozen. 

In  Naples,  they  have  a  saying,  when  any  literary  pro- 
duction is  very  bad,  that  it  was  written  during  a  sirocco. 

The  air  and  sky  are  a  common  heritage — they  greet 
all  the  living  impartially ;  and,  while  the  changes  of  all 
things  else  affect  only  certain  classes  and  individuals, 
their  variations  influence  us  all.  It  is  well  that  there  is 
thus  a  theme  of  universal  sympathy,  about  which  men, 
as  such,  can  exchange  opinions.  The  weather  is  essen- 
tially a  republican  subject ;  and  of  all  topics,  whereby  to 
get  over  the  awkwardness  of  a  first  interview,  it  is  de. 
cidedly  the  most  convenient.  What  idea  would  answer 
to  begin  a  colloquy  with,  had  we  not  the  weather  ?  If 
the  elements  were  as  fixed,  or  as  regular  in  their  changes, 
as  the  earth,  what  an  available  starting  point  in  conver- 
sation  should  we  be  deprived  of!  After  being  introduced 
34* 


402  THE    WEATHER. 

to  an  individual  of  whom  we  know   nothing,  what  could 
we  find   to  talk  about,   were   this   elemental  theme  not 
ever-present?     To  speak  of  literature  or  music,  without 
knowing  the  taste  of  our  new  acquaintance,  might  prove 
a  damper  ;   to  begin   chatting   about  other  people,  might 
betray  us  into  scandalizing  the  kindred  of  our   auditor ; 
but  to  allude  enthusiastically  to  the  beauty  of  the  even- 
ing,  or  sympathetically  to  its  coldness,  would,  in  all  pro- 
bability, advance  us  at  once  far  on  the  pleasant  track  of 
sociability.     Besides  it  is  altogether  so  natural  and  human 
to  talk   about  the  weather — to  tell  how  we  feel   under  its 
prevailing  influence — and  to  listen,  with  profound  inter- 
est, to  the   details  our  companion  may  give  as  to   its  ef- 
fect on  him.     In  this  way  we  glide,  with   trauscendant 
ease,  into  a  sympathizing  vein  ;  glimpses  of  mutual  char- 
acter  are  incidentally  afforded,  and  then  the  way  to  more 
familiar  communion  lies  clear  and  open.     Let  the  con- 
ceited non-observers  of  the   weather,  who   are  liable   to 
find  themselves  at  a  non-plus  in   conversation,  consider 
the  remarkable  adaptativeness  of  the  theme  ;  and  for  this, 
if  for  no  better  reason,  hasten  to  excite  their  lukewarm 
zeal  as  amateur  meteorologists. 

Weather-wisdom  is  a  consoling  acquirement.  I  have 
often  re-learned  the  lesson  of  human  equality,  in  observ- 
ing the  complacency  of  an  honest  tar,  as  he  interpreted 
the  signs  of  the  sky  to  some  accomplished  veteran  in 
book  lore.  The  poor  sailor,  only  matriculated  by  some 
marine  witchery  on*crossing  the  line  for  the  first  time — 
and  who  only  graduated,  after  some  fierce  whaling  ad- 
venture,  from  cabin-boy  to  seaman — thencefoith  witless 


THE    WEATHER.  403 

of  farther  degrees — expounding  to  the  attentive  univer- 
sity-man, a  chapter  of  his  knowledge  in  the  ways  of  the 
wind,  with  as  much  zest  as  his  hearer  ever  cleared  up  a 
puzzling  passage  in  the  Georgics  to  a  group  of  wonder- 
ing striplings.  Such  a  scene,  not  seldom  witnessed 
by  the  voyager,  evinces  what  a  comfortable  device  is 
weather-wisdom.  Admitting  it  is  the  illusive  thing 
many  deem  it,  what  a  pleasant  peg  it  affords  some  people 
to  hang  a  little  self-sustaining  pride  upon.  To  those  who 
have  not  wit  enough  to  comprehend  the  abstract  sciences, 
— to  those  who  regard  the  beauties  of  literature  as  mys- 
teries, and  who  can  make  nothing  of  political  economy — 
what  a  ready  alternative  is  weather-wisdom  !  It  requires 
little  sense  to  keep  a  journal  of  the  dates  of  snow  storms, 
or  to  talk,  with  seeming  sagacity,  of  the  prospects  of  the 
season.  And  what  a  benevolent  provision  is  this  of  na- 
ture's— that  such  as  are  bereft  of  more  recondite  lore,  can 
yet  nourish  self-respect  on  their  notable  attainments  in 
weather-wisdom  ! 

But  these  are  only  secondary  evidences  of  our  obliga 
tions  to  the  weather ;  insensibly  do  its  variations  gratify 
our  love  of  novelty.  Every  day  is  new — if  not  from 
change  of  circumstances,  from  change  of  weather.  How 
tame  might  not  be  our  feelings,  if  sameness  was  a  law  of 
the  elements  !  It  is  no  inconsiderable  pastime  to  note, 
on  every  successive  morning,  a  new  condition  of  the 
physical  world  ;  and  pitiable,  we  repeat,  is  he  who  finds 
no  refreshment  in  the  shifting  scene — to  whose  eye  all 
aspects  of  external  nature  are  alike  ;  then,  be  assured, 


404  THE    WEATHER. 

some  deep  grief  has  overshadowed  the  soul,  or  some  phy- 
sical infirmity  palsied  the  sense. 

There  is  something  morbid  in  those  who  are  insensi- 
ble to  the  weather,  as  well  as  in  such  as  are  nervously 
alive  to  its  every  minute  alteration.  It  is  a  beautiful  in- 
dication of  humanity  to  habitually  take  cognizance  of  these 
subtle  agencies  that  surround  us — to  regard  them  as  min- 
istrants  intimately  associated  with  human  weal.  I  once 
stood  amid  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  amphitheatre  with  a 
man  of  deep  social  sympathies  ;  we  spoke  of  the  myriads 
who  once  thronged  the  now  silent  spot.  *  We  have  reason 
to  believe,'  said  he,  '  that  wherever  they  are,  they  are  togC' 
ther ;  what  a  happy  idea,  that  even  a  dismal  fate  may  be 
meliorated  by  sympathy  !*  And  we  that  now  throng  a 
living  temple — would  it  not  be  an  anomaly  if  we  did  not 
sympathize  under  the  operation  of  universal  laws? 
There  is  truth  to  human  nature  in  Hamlet's  allusion  to 
the  weather,  even  when  awaiting  his  father's  ghost. 

Our  interest  in  the  weather  is  not  altogether  direct. 
Not  alone  to  our  individual  senses  does  it  appeal.  Hu- 
man hopes  sway  in  every  breeze.  Destiny  sometimes 
seems  dependent  upon  the  elements.  How  many  anx- 
ious beings  are  noting  the  wayward  winds  when  their 
loved  ones  are  upon  the  waters  ;  how  many  tearful  eyes 
are  directed  to  the  sky  when  the  cherished  invalid  is  ex- 
posed to  its  varying  phases.  Property  and  life,  success 
and  love,  are  too  often  and  too  nearly  associated  with  the 
weather,  to  permit  even  the  hardy  and  the  stern  to  boast 
perfect  immunity  from  its  influences.  And  we  wonder 
not  that  the  ancients  deified  and  invoked  the  agents  of 


THE    WEATHER.  405 

such  mighty  revolutions.  Invisibly,  and  with  a  scarcely 
perceptible  increase,  the  new  wind  arises ;  but  on  its  un- 
seen wings  float — how  many  human  interests!  It  bears 
to  the  worn  and  watching  tidings  of  the  absent ,  it  wafts 
to  the  unthinking  breast  the  seeds  of  a  fell  diseajg ;  it 
awakens  hymns  among  the  light  foliage,  and  refreshes 
the  care-shadowed  brow : — odours  and  music,  gladness 
and  grief,  life  and  death,  are  borne  with  silence  and 
certainty  to  their  destined  ends.  And  so  with  the  sun- 
light and  the  storm,  the  summer  shower  and  the  noontide 
heat — they  have  voices  many  and  impressive,  and  fulfil 
a  thousand  noiseless  and  subtle  missions  with  prompti- 
tude. 

We  are  told  that  at  one  period  in  the  ancient  history 
of  medicine,  but  two  kinds  of  disease  were  recognized, 
resulting  from  the  contracted  and  relaxed  state  of  the 
pores.  Doubtless  this  system  originated  in  the  observation 
of  the  effects  of  atmospheric  changes  upon  the  skin. 
Some  individuals  feel  the  weather  chiefly  through  this 
medium  ;  some  are  made  aware  of  its  variations  by  the 
sensations  they  excite  in  the  region  of  the  lungs  or 
stomach  ;  and  to  others  the  temples  or  thorax  are  as  a  per- 
petual  barometer.  By  the  peculiar  sensibility  of  some 
part  of  their  bodies,  all  are,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree, 
physically  susceptible  to  the  weather  ;  and  through  what- 
ever portal  the  unbidden  guest  enters,  the  nervous  sense 
is  soon  aware  of  iis  presence.  And  thus,  the  universal 
agent,  the  spirit  of  the  elements,  insinuates  itself  into  a 
higher  domain.  Our  mental  moods  are,  more  or  less, 
affected  ;    and  when   the  temperament   is   poetical,  the 


406  .  THE    WEATHER. 

weather,  like  all  things  else,  abounds  with  under-currents 
of  influence  and  mystic  echoes  to  its  common  language, 
of  which  the  multitude  are  scarcely  conscious. 

The  weather  is  an  impressive  time-keeper.  To  many 
it  is  ti^most  regulating  of  dials.  Not  only  does  it  serve 
to  mark  the  flight,  but  to  control  the  appropriation  of 
time.  The  dreamy  mood,  induced  by  a  warm,  cloudy 
day,  inclines  us  to  visit  ruins.  The  blitheness  excited 
by  a  cold,  clear  morning,  suggests  a  rapid  promenade. 
When  the  night-wind  sighs  dismally,  our  fancies  rove 
through  the  world  of  dark  romance.  A  winter  twilight 
makes  us  realize  '  how  transitory  are  human  flowers  ;' 
and  the  same  season  in  mid. summer,  quickens  the  idea 
of  being  into  a  sense  of  immortality.  All  the  world  over, 
mild  and  moonlight  evenings  are  sacred  to  young  love. 
Old  Walton  wisely  invokes  a  wet  evening  for  the  perusal 
of  his  discourse ;  and, 

•  'Tis  heaven  to  lounge  upon  a  couch,  said  Gray, 
And  read  new  novels  through  a  rainy  day' 

The  poets  from  first  to  last,  in  things  human  and 
scientific,  are,  after  all,  the  best  philosophers.  How 
universally  have  they  taken  cognizance  of,  and  chroni- 
cled the  elements  ;  and  how  appropriately  adapted  them 
to  the  circumstances  of  their  heroes  and  heroines.  How 
feelingly  they  speak  of  the  weather!  What  obesrvant, 
particular,  and  sensitive  meteorologists  are  they  all. 
How  graphic  is  Byron's  description  of  a  London  day- 
break and  how  sweetly  does  Mrs.  Hemans  extol  the 
magic  of  a  sunbeam !     What  influential,  ay,  and  meta- 


THE    WEATHER.  407 

physical  storms,  dog-days,  and  spring  mornings,  are  those 
immortalized  in  the  annals  of  every  celebrated  bard. 
In  truth,  poets  seem  intuitively  weather-wise. 

The  weather  is  eloquently  symbolical.     It  is  a  peren- 
nial fountain  of  metaphors.     The  clouds  that  fly  over  the 
star-gemmed  sky,  typify  the  exhalations  of  earth  which, 
ever  and  anon,  shade  the  spirit  in  its  pilgrimage.     The 
wreaths  of  vapour  circling  on  the  gentle  breeze,  and 
made  rosy  and  radiant  by  the  sun-light,  present  an  apt 
similitude  of  the  rise,  expansion,  and  glow  of  the  enthu- 
siast's visions.     An  icy  footpath  preaches  a  homily  on 
mortal  instability  to  the  pedestrian,  and  a  deep  azure  sky 
is  a  pure  symbol  of  peace  to  the  gifted  eye.     The  moon- 
light reposing  on  snow  has  been  fitly  made  to  illustrate 
memory  ;   and  the  dew  sparkling  in  the  sun,  is  a  bright 
emblem  of  youth,  as  its  vanishing  is  of  decay.     Happy 
the  being,  whose  consciousness  is  so  lost  in  the  blest  in- 
tensity of  the  elements  within  him,  as  to  be  unconscious 
of  those  around  him  ;   for  the  glow  of  human  enthusiasm 
is  more  beautiful  than  the  flush  of  the  most  magnificent 
sunset.     But  undesirable  is  the  sternness  that  disdains 
to  recognize  the  contrasts  of  the  elements  ;  for  the  aspect 
of  a  frozen  lake  or  the  touch  of  a  northern  blast  is  lar  less 
chilling,  thaa  an  unsympathizing  spirit  to  a  being  of  wor- 
thy sensibility. 


MANNER. 


When  the  fluid  particles  composing  the  primeval  earth 
settled  into  consistent  masses,  an  unbroken,  uniform, 
plain  was  not  the  result ;  but  everywhere,  form,  color 
and  density  indicated  the  various  species  of  matter.  Ver. 
dure  crept  over  the  rich  loam,  long  tables  of  sand  marked 
the  limits  of  the  sea,  and  rocks  of  every  hue  stood  forth 
from  the  hills.  Form  of  aspect  and  movement  became  a 
law  of  creation.  Even  the  unstable  elements  obeyed  it. 
The  waters  projected  themselves  into  billows,  currents, 
and  fountains,  and  the  aeriform  waves  of  the  *'  upper 
deep"  were  poured  forth  in  as  certain  developments.  To 
everything  a  manner  was  awarded,  by  which  it  was  to 
be  recognised,  and  through  which  it  was  to  be  studied. 
Another  world  was  then  called  into  being, — a  universe  of 
thought,  sentiment,  fancy,  and  feeling,  a  human  world. 
And  in  this,  too,  external  forms  were  assumed,  and  man- 
ner became  a  characteristic  of  mortals.  The  same  law 
obtains  in  the  spheres  of  mind  and  matter;  but  how  dif- 
ferently displayed  !  Since  the  first  song  of  the  stars,  the 
heavens  have  worn  the  same  successive  drapery,  the  earth 


MANNER.  409 

has  changed  not  her  four  familiar  robes.    The  winds  have 
raised  the  billows  into  mountains  or  dallied  with  the  rose- 
leaves.     In  all  things  has  nature  been  variable,  yet  the 
same — ever  presenting  a  well-known  though  ever  varying 
feature.     She  knows  not  the  law  of  fashion.     She  is  in- 
expert in   artificial  diplomacy.     But  manner,  among  hu- 
man beings,  is  subject  to  the  modifications  of  time  and 
place ;  it  can  be  made   subservient  to  the  will.     In  its 
very  nature,  manner  is  a  means,  and  greatly  do  those  err 
who  make  it  an  end.     Yet  are  there  individuals,  by  whom 
this  adjunctive,  secondary,  exponent  principle  is  supreme- 
ly cultivated  and  mainly  relied  on.     There  are  those  who 
manage  to  glide  along  through  the  world  by   a  kind  of 
mannered  legerdemain,  who  have  acquired  their  manner 
in  the  ancient  school  of  Proteus,  and  by  their  singular 
dexterity  in  ever  imparting  the  required  impression,  from 
moment  to  moment,  fail   not   in    their   social    objects. 
There    is  a  species  of  shufi^ers,  who  succeed,  by  virtue  of 
an  off-hand  manner,  which  mankind,  in  general,  are  con- 
tent to  yield  to.     The   most  popular  class  is,  doubtless, 
that  which  reduces  Chesterfield  to  practice,  on  principle, 
and  with  veritable  punctilio.     These  devotees   lean  on  a 
broken   reed.     Tneir  faith   in  a  manner   is  too  perfect. 
"With  wonder  did  I  once  hear  a  man  of  sense  console 
himself  for  the  unprincipled  conduct  of  his  son,  by  de- 
claring that  « through  all  he  had  kept  his  manners.'    When 
tact  at  mere  verbal  rhyming  constitutes  a  poet,  musical 
memory  a  composer,   or  taste  in  colors  a  painter,  then 
may  we  believe  that  manner  will  make  a  man,  for, 


35 


410  MANNER. 

"  Heaven  never  meant  him  for  a  passive  thing, 
That  can  be  struck  and  hammered  out  to  suit 
Another's  taste  and  fancy." 

There  is  a  policy  in  manner.  I  have  heard  one,  not  in- 
experienced in  the  pursuit  of  fame,  give  it  his  earnest 
support  as  being  the  surest  passport  to  absolute  and  bril- 
liant success.  And  who,  that  has  been  chained,  for  hours, 
as  by  enchantment,  with  the  grace  and  elegance  of  an 
orator,  and  then,  in  solitude,  reviewed  his  words  and  re- 
called not  a  single  original  and  impressive  idea — has  not 
realised  this?  It  is  wonderful  how  a  skilful  mannerist 
can  deceive  the  world  as  to  his  acquirements  and  motives. 
I  have,  at  this  moment,  in  my  mind's  eye,  the  comely 
figure  of  an  individual  who  has  attained , no  undesirable 
elevation  in  the  world  of  letters,  whose  manner  is  so  pro- 
found and  scholar-like,  so  redolent  of  the  otium  cum  dig- 
nitate,  that  it  has  earned  him  the  cognomen  o^ihe  learned. 
A  Greek  name  is  inscribed  upon  his  cane,  and  a  Latin 
adage  upon  his  tongue's  end.  He  yields  not  to  familiar 
discourse,  nor  manifests  an  interest  in  aught  save  what  is 
classical.  In  company  with  scholars,  he  is  silent,  seem- 
ingly from  abstraction  ;  in  the  society  of  the  uninitiated 
he  speaks  much,  apparently  to  relieve  the  exuberance  of 
his  acquisitions  :  the  one  class  attempt  not  to  examine 
his  pretensions,  from  a  horror  (natural  to  high  minds)  of 
pedantic  display ;  the  other,  awe-struck,  yield  him  rever- 
ence. Now  a  few  years  since,  — ^ ;  but  I  will  not 
betray  him.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  first  time  the  mag- 
nificence of  his  manner  is  invaded,  the  commanding 
frost-work  of  his  reputation  will  melt  in  air.     We  habit- 


MANNER.  411 

ually  suspect  the  truthfulness  of  a  prominent  manner.  If, 
in  the  presence  of  an  individual,  he  induces  us  to  think 
continually  of  his  manner  and  forget  himself,  we  are  quick- 
ly aware  of  our  want  of  affinity.  There  is  no  delight  in 
his  fellowship.  Of  all  forbidding  inventions,  an  assumed 
manner  is  the  most  effectual.  We  instinctively  anticipate 
the  forthcoming  scene  behind  our  backs.  Some  masterly 
delineation  of  the  Duke  of  Gloster,  in  the  act  of  hurling 
away  the  prayer  book,  occurs  to  us.  We  are  ill  at  ease  ; 
we  seem  to  hear  the  laugh  and  witness  the  mimicry  which 
is  to  occur  when  the  door  has  closed  upon  our  exit.  We 
discern  beyond  the  smile  and  the  honeyed  word,  and  are 
sickened  at  the  self  created  hollowness  of  a  human  heart. 
We  have  admirable  provisions  in  our  civil  code,  for  the 
crimes  of  perjury  and  overreaching.  A  thrice  heavy  pen- 
alty should  fall  upon  him  convicted  of  deliberately  and 
habitually  practising  upon  mankind,  through  the  agency 
of  a  pre-assumed,  politic  manner.  Manner  is  the  univer- 
sal language,  the  grand  circulating  medium  ;  and  should 
not  the  attempt  to  counterfeit  the  genuine,  native  stamped 
coin,  be  made  penal  1  There  are  no  greater  forgers  in  the 
universe  than  cunning  mannerists.  Their  whole  lives  are 
false.  The  loveliest  of  human  attributes,  the  beautiful,  the 
winning  virtue  of  sincerity  abides  not  with  them.  They 
have  abjured  the  profession  of  humanity.  They  have  be- 
come pliyers — with  none  of  the  ideal  interest  and  single- 
ness of  purpose  which  may  belong  to  the  legitimate  follow- 
ers of  Thespis.  The  wearisome  rehearsals,  the  guarded 
conduct,  the  oppressive  sense  of  having  a  part  to  play,  the 
struggles  bevveen  the  real  man  and  the  assumed  character— 


412 


MANNER. 


all  press  upon  and  disturb  them ;  and  there  is  for  them 
no  refreshing  returns  to  nature,  no  blissful  interludes  in 
the  trying  drama,  for  habit  has  bound  them  to  the  task,  and 
policy  goads  them  on. 

There  is  a  poignancy  in  manner.  I  have  often  heard  a 
friend  describe  the  effect  produced  at  a  well-surrounded  din- 
ner  table,  by  the  silence  of  a  gentleman  to  whom  one  of  the 
company,  in  a  very  audible  voice,  had  addressed  an  imper- 
tinent question.  The  tacit  rebuke  was  most  keenly  felt; 
it  was  more  effectualthan  a  public  reprimand,  and  yet  how 
entirely  devoid  of  irrational  severity.  Similar  results 
may  be  effected  through  expert  application  of  manner. 
An  instance  occurs  among  the  innumerable  anecdotes  re- 
lated of  John  Randolph.  A  young  aspirant  for  congres- 
sional fame  saw  fit,  in  his  maiden  speech,  to  give  proof 
of  his  boldness  and  eloquence,  by  a  long  and  abusive  at- 
tack upon  the  eccentric  member  from  Virginia.  At  the 
conclusion  of  the  young  orator's  voluminous  address,  the 
hero  of  Roanoke  arose,  and  stretching  his  long,  nervous 
arm  toward  the  seat  of  the  complacent  youth,  with  a  half- 
enquiring,  half-contemptuous  look,  thus  replied  : — "  Mr. 
Speaker,  who's  that  ?"  There  was  a  sarcastic  bitterness 
in  his  manner,  under  which  the  offender  quailed.  I  was 
never  more  impressed  with  the  poignant  sting  mere  man- 
ner can  inflict,  than  on  one  occasion,  when  abroad.  Soon 
after  day-break,  on  a  misty  morning,  the  steam-boat  which 
had  brought  us  from  Naples,  dropped  anchor  in  the  port 
of  Leghorn.  We  waited,  with  great  impatience,  the  arri- 
val  of  the  permit  to  land,  from  the  board  of  health.  At 
length,  understanding  it  had  been  received,  I  joined  a  party 


MANNER.  413 

of  the  pasengers  and  entered  one  of  the  boats  which  sur- 
rounded us.  We  were  distant  from  the  shore  about  an 
eighth  of  a  mile.  The  wind  was  blowing  a  gale  and  the 
sea  running  very  high.  We  had  reached  about  the  mid- 
dle of  the  intervening  space,  and  were  beginning  to  re- 
joice at  the  prospect  of  a  comfortable  shelter,  when  the 
health-officer,  from  the  steam-vessel,  hailed  our  boatman, 
ordering  him,  upon  his  peril,  not  to  proceed.  It  seemed 
some  form  had  been  omitted  ;  and,  we  were  kept  in  the 
rain,  and  among  the  dashing  billows,  for  more  than  half 
an  hour.  Thoroughly  vexed  at  the  officer's  conduct,  we 
began  at  last  to  approach  the  quay,  cold,  wet,  and  comfort- 
less. Various  measures  were  suggested  for  bringing 
hiiyi  to  punishment.  An  Englishman  begged  that  we 
would  leave  it  to  him,  assuring  us  he  was  well  acquainted 
with  the  temperament  of  the  people.  Soon  after,  the  offi- 
cial barge  approached,  and  in  th^^  prow  sat  our  enemy 
with  that  air  of  superiority  characteristic  of  underlings. 
With  much  curiosity  we  awaited  the  movements  of  our 
British  companion.  To  our  astonishment  he  doffisd  his 
hat,  and  said — addressing  the  officer — '<  Your  name,  sir, 
if  you  please."  The  rowers  of  the  barge  slackened  their 
oars  and  gazed  curiously  upon  their  commander;  his  face 
was  suffused  with  scarlet — "  My  name  !  my  name!"  he 
muttered  fiercely,  and  impatiently  waving  to  the  oarsmen, 
they  soon  shot  rapidly  away.  We  looked  to  the  English 
gentleman  for  an  explanation.  "  Gentlemen"  said  he, 
*'  be  assured  I  have  wounded  him  to  the  quick  ;  if  I  had 
parleyed  with  him,  his  pride  would  have  been  gratified; 
but  by  aisking,  in  a  ceremonious  manner,  for  his  name, 

36* 


414  MANNER. 

in  the  presence  of  his  men,  as  if  we  disdained  to  do  less 
than  complain  to  his  superior,  I  have  both  mortified  and 
alarmed  him.  The  formality  of  my  manner  has  punished 
him  more  than  words  could  possibly  do."  And  so  it 
proved.  For,  on  landing,  we  found  him  pacing  the  wharf, 
and  uttering  his  indignation  and  fears  most  violently ; 
while  ample  apologies  were  proffered  us  from  all  quarters. 
I  afterwards  discovered  that  to  bandy  words  with  the  low- 
er classes  of  Italy,  was  but  to  waste  one's  breath  and  sub- 
ject the  patience  to  a  great  trial ; — io  meet  them  on  their 
own  ground  and  give  them  the  advantage  which  the  fluen- 
cy of  their  language  affords.  They  must  be  addressed  by 
the  language  of  manner,  to  which  they  are  peculiarly  sus- 
ceptible. There  is  a  power  in  manner.  How  finely 
Byron  describes,  in  the  bearing  of  Conrad — 

"  that  commanding  art 
That  dazzles,  leads,  yet  chills  the  vulgar  heart." 

Who  that  is  susceptible  to  nature,  will  deny  that  the  sway 
of  manner  consists  in  its  truth  ?  We  speak  of  the  impres- 
sive dignity  of  some  of  the  Indian  tribes;  kings  might 
strive  to  imitate  it  in  vain.  It  is  the  gift  of  nature — the 
ennobling  grace  of  the  forest  lords.  The  companionship 
of  genius — when  do  we  most  perfectly  realise  it?  When 
enthusiasm  has  led  the  gifted  mind  into  such  an  outpour- 
ing that  manner  is  forgotten,  and  every  look  and  move- 
ment is  instinct  with  soul.  In  aged  persons  and  child- 
ren— those  who  have  lived  too  long  to  meditate  effect,  and 
those  who,  as  yet,  listen  only  to  the  inward  oracle,  we  most 
frequently  see  the  perfect  spell  of  manner.     What  a  world 


MANNER.  415 

of  allurement  is  involved  in  the  common  phrase,  an  unaf- 
fected manner  !  Nothing  is  so  delightful  as  what  is  spon, 
taneous.  A  frank  expression  of  sentiment,  a  native 
manner,  captivate  ;  thrice  happy  when  the  latter  is  habit- 
ual. Memnon's  image  imparted  not  its  mysterious 
strains  except  at  the  touch  of  the  sunbeams,  nor  will  man- 
ner yield  its  true  witchery  from  any  inspiration  but  that 
of  the  soul. 


PET-NOTIONS. 


Our  loving  tendencies,  like  Bob  Acres'  valor,  some- 
time ooze  out,  if  not  from  the  finger  ends,  yet  in  forms 
the  most  various  and  fantastic  imaginable.  All  of  us 
have  our  little  oddities,  minor  loves  and  minor  interests, 
objects  trifling,  and  perhaps  ridiculous  in  themselves,  and 
■yet  were  we  at  strict  confessional,  perchance,  it  would 
appear  that  these  pet.notions  are  as  much  heart-binders 
as  mightier  things.  For  my  part,  I  see  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of  in  the  minute  eccentricities  of  our  wayward 
hearts,  restless  minds,  or  fanciful  idealities.  I  love  to 
see  human  nature  vindicate  itself,  however  quaintly.  It 
is  a  proof  of  the  ethereal  essence  of  the  soul  that  when  a 
man  is  entombed  between  four  bare  walls,  he  will,  like 
poor  Trenck,  cherish  amity  with  a  dungeon  mouse,  or 
love,  like  Pellico,  of  prison  memory,  to  minister  to  the 
pleasure  of  a  spider.  Pet-notions,  like  every  other  spe- 
cies of  the  immense  family  of  notions,  are  highly  repre- 
hensible in  their  excess.  When  instead  of  serving  their 
appropriate  office  of  nooks  for  the  play  of  our  little  amiable 
humors,  they  are  made  the  sole  fields  for  the  free  bound- 


PET-NOTIONS,  417 

ing  affections  to  revel  in,  then  are  pet-notions  rendered 
stocks  wherein  to  cramp  and  pervert  humanity.  I  would 
fain  believe  that  this  is  less  the  case  than  formerly.  Here 
and  there  only  in  the  wide  world,  I  ween,  may  the  wo- 
man  now  be  found  whose  love  has  yielded  up  its  sanctity, 
and  become  concentrated  in  a  poodle-dog  or  a  parrot. 
The  pet-notions  of  our  day,  I  take  to  be  legitimate,  and 
not  seldom  interesting.  They  are  what  they  should  be, 
tiny  curious  leaves,  peeping  out  comically  from  among 
the  more  umbrageous  foliage  of  our  love-bowers. 

Few  things  minister  more  generally  and  appropriately 
to  the  pet  passions  than  flowers.  Beautiful  provision  does 
Flora  make  for  our  little  loves.  I  marvel  not  that  many 
are  touched  with  an  universal  affection  for  the  entire  con- 
tents of  the  goddess's  cornucopia  ;  and,  like  Horace 
Smith,  merge  in  attachment  to  the  delightful  family  their 
partiality  for  an  individual  member,  and  exclaim,  with  that 
fond  bard, 

"  Floral  apostles  !  that  in  dewy  splendor 

Weep  without  wo,  and  blush  without  a  crime  ! 
O  may  1  deeply  learn  and  ne'er  surrender 
Your  lore  sublime  !" 

But  it  is  essential  to  a  pet-passion  that  its  objects  should 
be  petty  and  single,  minute,  and,  as  far  as  may  be,  unique. 
Accordingly  those  who  love  flowers  at  all,  generally  love, 
with  especial  affection,  a  particular  species.  Could  the 
truth  be  known,  I  think  the  above-named  Horace  is  par- 
tial to  some  bell-flower,  he  speaks  so  touchingly  of  the 

"  Floral  bell  that  swingeth 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air." 


418  PET-NOTIONS. 

But  however  that  may  be,  it  is  an  obvious  fact  that  pet- 
flowers  are  remarkably  common.  Witness  the  tributary 
stanzas  of  the  standard  poets  ;  and  observe  how  indivi- 
dual characteristics  are  shadowed  forth  even  in  pet- 
notions.  Who  but  poor  Burns  could  have  written  so  lov- 
ingly of  a  mountain  daisy  ?  His  deep,  tender  spirit  of  hu- 
manity led  him  to  cherish  the  wee  bit  flower  as  it  did  to 
note  the  young  castaway,  with  a  sympathy  surpassing 
what  gaudier  flowers  and  more  prosperous  human  beings 
could  inspire.  Does  not  Wordsworth  affect  primroses  be- 
cause they  are  so  common  and  grow  wild?  Mrs.  He- 
mans,  methinks,  would  scarcely  have  spoken  of  any  but 
a  pet-flower  as  she  has  of  the  water-lily  ;  and  of  a  truth,  I 
know  of  few  similitudes  whereby  her  own  sweet  self 
can  be  better  typified.  Graceful,  lovely,  and  upward 
gazing  is  the  lily — and  so  was  the  poetess.  A  friend  of 
mine  is  passionately  fond  of  pinks.  In  summer 
you  may  know  him  among  a  thousand,  by  one  of  his  lit- 
tle favorites  protruding  from  his  button-hole  or  twirling 
between  his  lips.  There  is  an  analogy  between  his  pet- 
flower  and  himself.  He  admires  neatness,  order,  and 
symmetry  of  arrangement.  He  suffers  if  a  picture  hangs 
awry,  and  wherever  he  is,  begs  leave  to  right  its  position. 
A  smile  lights  up  his  countenance  whenever  a  man  of 
well-arranged  exterior  presents  himself.  In  a  word,  my 
friend  is  '  as  neat  as  a  pink.' 

There  are  those  who  have  so  little  of  their  proper 
humanity  remaining,  that  nature  furnishes  no  little^ em- 
blems which  please  them  by  affinity  ;  so,  their  pet-notions 
are  confined  to  some  trinket  of  rare  materials  or  peculiar 


PET-NOTIONS.  419 

workmanship.  There^s  old  Carville — who  with  much 
precision  of  character  unites  not  a  little  of  superstition 
and  technicality — one  of  that  class  so  admirably  describ- 
ed as  *  endeavoring  to  atone  by  microscopic  accuracy  for 
imbecility  in  fundamental  principles/  Carville's  pet-notion 
some  time  ago,  was  a  very  small  and  exquisitely  wrought 
death's  head,  which  he  carried  in  his  waiscoat  pocket,  to 
remind  him,  as  he  said,  *  of  his  coming  change.'  Now 
he  has  the  key  of  his  tomb  hung  up  above  his  writing  desk 
for  the  same  purpose.  I've  heard  of  a  gentleman  who 
carries  a  phrenological  chart  on  the  lid  of  his  snuff-box. 
This  pet-notion  ministers  highly  to  his  pleasure  and  ad- 
vantage, since  all  his  brother  mortals  are,  as  soon  as 
seen,  brought  to  trial,  as  his  eye  glances  from  his  mull  to 
their  craniums.  Medals,  coins,  old  china,  and  autographs, 
are  the  pets  of  many. 

The  pet-notions  of  others  are  far  more  abstract  than 
these ;  they  consist  of  words  or  phrases  which  have  be- 
come, from  long  use,  inseparably  associated  with  the  in- 
dividual. They  may  have  been  first  adopted  from  ca- 
price ;  but  usually  we  find  the  person  has,  or  fancies  he 
has,  the  tact  of  making  them  very  expressive,  or  they 
mean  much  in  his  estimation,  suit  his  voice  and  air,  or 
indicate  from  his  mouth  a  mystic  profundity  of  knowledge, 
wit,  or  sentiment.  At  all  events,  they  are  pet-notions, 
as  you  may  know  from  their  frequent  use,  and  the  aim  at 
effect  with  which  they  are  uttered.  An  acquaintance  of 
mine  exclaims,  «  My  dear  fellow '  every  five  minutes, 
with  an  aflfectionateness  which  is  touching  in  the  extreme. 
He  knows  it,  and  therefore  has  petted  the  phrase  till  now 


420  PET-NOTIONS. 

he  would  as  soon  part  with  his  own  name  as  discontinue 
the  moving  enunciation.  A  fashionable,  conversable  lady,. 
whom  I  have  often  heard  talk,  expresses  her  assent  to 
whatever  views  are  promulgated  to  her  by  the  terra  *  de- 
cidedly,^ uttered  with  an  intonation  and  nod  superlative- 
ly  impressive.  It  was  a  decidedly  pet-notion  of  hers  to 
introduce  this  word  continually  into  her  vivacious  chat- 
tings.  1  know  a  poetical  dandy  who  used  to  accomplish 
the  same  object  by  the  phrase  '  true,  true.^  The  articula- 
tion of  these  words  did  not  cost  him  much  breath,  of 
which  tight  garments  left  him  little  to  waste  ;  there  was 
a  dignity  in  their  very  brevity,  and  therefore  were  they 
complacently  adopted  into  his  petty  vocabulary. 

My  quondam  friend  in  the  city  of was  a  fine- 
hearted  old  Italian  bachelor,  who  had  sojourned  yeais  by- 
gone in  this  country.  He  spoke  tolerable  English,  ex- 
cept the  accent  and  nasal  melody  with  which  the  words 
were  connected  at  long  intervals.  Now  the  choice  of  a 
phrase  for  a  pet  was  of  no  small  importance  to  the  good 
signor.  In  the  first  place,  it  ought  to  be  a  priori,  of  uni- 
versal applicability,  in  order  to  come  in  whenever  his  ver- 
bal memory  should  fail — an  accident  by  the  way,  of  no 
unfrequent  occurrence — then  it  should  have  a  latent  wis- 
dom, for  my  old  friend  prided  himself  upon  his  know- 
ledge of  the  world,  and  delivered  the  most  ordinary  ex- 
pressions with  an  air  of  oriental  gravity  ;  therefore  must 
the  phrase  be  rife  with  meaning.  Whether  these  consi- 
derations led  to  its  selection,  whether  he  gleaned  it  from 
learned  men  of  this  land,  consulted  Dr.  Johnson,  or  hit 
upon  it  by  a  happy  effort  of  his  own  genius,  I  cannot 


PET-NOTIO?fS,  421 

positively  declare  ;  buf  assuredly  never  was  there  a  bet- 
ter or  more  fitting  pet-notion  furnished  foreigner  from 
tiie  bounteous  bosom  of  our  blessed  vernacular.  The 
first  time  I  heard  it  from  the  lips  of  the  signor,  I  was 
lost  in  admiration,  and  not  doubting  it  was  the  precursor 
of  some  profound  discourse,  I  composed  myself  to  listen 
with  an  emotion  of  thankful  expectancy ;  the  second  time, 
I  was  taken  less  by  surprise,  and  noted  with  new  delight 
the  gesture,  glance,  and  preparatory  ahem ;  by  and  by,  I 
became  accustonred  to  it,  and  never  ascended  the  high 
winding  stairs  which  led  to  the  old  man's  apartment, 
without  an  indefinite  anticipation,  or  descended  them 
without  a  lurking  lingering  sense  of  my  friends  petuo- 
tion.  I  seem  even  now  to  hear  him.  I  admired  to  go 
thither  with  novices,  to  witness  the  effect.  It  was  aston- 
ishing with  what  facility  he  introduced  the  phrase  into 
conversation,  no  matter  what  its  nature  or  end.  Whether 
speaking  of  the  latest  political  intelligence,  of  the  wea- 
ther,  of  the  opera,  of  dinner,  of  time  past,  present  or  fu- 
ture  ;  of  this  or  that  man,  woman  or  child,  of  books 
or  beggars,  of  war  or  walking,  of  money  or  martyr- 
dom ; — still,  still  would  he  gravely,  solemnly,  fondly 
reiterate,  « My  dear  sir,  human  nature  has  always  been 
the  same.' 

The  natural  interest  in  the  principle  of  life  which  char- 
acterises human  beings,  influences  their  pet-notions. 
We  instinctively  love  animation — the  embodying  of  a 
living,  moving,  self- actuating  energy.  Hence  the  most 
generally  cherished  pet-notions  are  taken  from  the  animal 
world.  And  herein  I  again  recognize  a  true  humanity 
36 


422  PET-NOTIONS. 

in  these  foibles  of  the  affections ;  if  such  they  may  be 
called.  I  have  found  those  who  make  an  intimate  of 
some  lone  member  of  the  feathered  tribe,  find  companion- 
ship in  one  of  the  canine  species,  or  tenderly  care  for  a 
steed,  generally  prove,  in  the  double  and  best  sense  of  the 
term,  clever  fellows.  1  know  much  is  said  of  the  dearth 
of  domestic  attachment,  of  the  folly  of  bestowing  so  much 
care  on  a  brute,  &c. ;  but,  Avhen  not  over-indulged,  such 
pet-notions  are  usually  discoverable  in  whole-hearted  and 
susceptible  beings.  I  have  heard  of  an  eccentric  En- 
glishman who  petted  an  oyster  many  years,  feeding  it 
with  oat-meal  till  its  size  was  prodigious.  No  less  cheer- 
ful are  the  little  back  yards  of  the  French  metropolis, 
because  at  noon  and  eve  the  white-capped  housewife  pro- 
vokes the  mocking-bird,  whose  cage  hangs  under  the 
vine  leaves,  by  her  endearing  greetings,  to  echo  every 
note  of  the  woodland.  The  favored  dove  that  stoops  at  sun- 
rise  to  the  window,  and  quaintly  turns  upward  her  spark- 
ling eye  as  she  perches  on  the  fair  hand  which  has  nour. 
ished  her  ;  the  spaniel  who  leaps  to  hail  the  return  of  his 
master,  despised  old  bachelor  though  he  be  ;  the  tabby  fa- 
vorite who  purs  forlh  her  love  in  the  lap  of  her  whose 
blessedness  were  otherwise  indeed  single  ;  the  pampered 
gold  fish  in  their  glassy  globe,  and  the  froward  kid  who 
looks  in  at  the  door, — indicate  to  the  reflective  observer 
that  the  freshness  and  expansion  of  humanity  have  not 
departed  from  the  dwelling  ;  that  love  is  there,  albeit  some 
of  its  overflowings  fall  soothingly  even  upon  the  soulless 
brute. 

It  [was  no  small  amusement  to  Shelley,  at  Oxford,  to 


PET-NOTIONS.  423 

sail  paper. boats.  Dr.  Johnson  used  to  save  orange-peel 
and  feed  his  cat  with  oysters.  Many  a  milliner's  appren- 
tice cherishes  a  box  of  mignonette,  and  the  poorest  clerk 
can  afford  to  keep  a  geranium  in  his  window — of  which 
the  feel  of  the  leaf,  says  Hunt  '  has  a  household  warmth 
in  it  some.vhat  analogous  to  clothing  and  comfort.'  A 
man  in  Germany,  once  collected  a  large  number  of 
ropes  with  which  criminals  had  been  executed ;  and  a 
monk  passed  years  in  attempting  to  gather  all  the  prints 
of  the  Madonna  ever  issued. 

Vauciuse  was  as  odd  and  withal  as  affectionate  as  any 

of  the  students  at  the  university  of .     I  have  seU 

dom  known  a  more  singular  pet-notion,  or  one  more  fond, 
ly  petted  than  was  his.  He  was  romantic  in  the  extreme, 
and  the  mysterious  appearance  of  his  notion  coupled  with 
a  highly  romantic  era  in  its  history,  which  I  will  relate, 
combined  to  deepen  the  pride  andjnterest  with  which  he 
cherished  his  pet.  He  was  gazing  thoughtfully  from  his 
windoA',  just  as  the  sun  beamed  brightly  upon  the  sill, 
when  bending  his  eye  thither,  from  an  aperture  beneath, 
he  saw  a  young  toad  spring  out  and  composedly  seat  him- 
self in  the  genial  rays.  Presently  an  unfortunate  fly 
sailing  languidly  by,  was  snapped  at,  and  devoured  in  a 
twinkling,  by  the  speckled  intruder,  and  this  act  of  des- 
tructiveness  was  repeated  at  intervals,  until  the  shadows 
darkened  the  sill,  when  the  toad  quietly  retreated  to  his  hole. 
Vauciuse  marked  this  for  a  white  day  in  his  monotonous 
life.  Already  his  heart  yearned  toward  the  indepen- 
dent fly  hunter.  He  found  something  singularly  interest- 
ing in  his  appearance  and  manners.     There  was  a  touch 


424  pet-notions. 

of  misanthropy,  a  grave  contempt  of  the  world,  a  magis- 
trate-like  dignity,  a  solitary  quietude  and  an  honest  bach- 
elorism about  the  toad,  that  chimed  in  with  the  student's 
humor.  He  determined  to  adopt  and  cherish  him  ;  and 
accordingly  was  at  the  window,  to  welcome  his  pet-notion, 
as  soon  as  Sol  brightened  the  sill,  and  joining  in  the  fly 
hunt,  he  daily  surfeited  the  stomach  of  his  favorite  till  he 
looked,  for  all  the  world,  like  a  Dutch  alderman.  Things 
were  in  this  state,  when  Vaucluse  was  disturbed  in  the 
midst  of  his  feeding  operations,  by  the  abrupt  entrance  of 
the  last  man  he  wished  to  see,  under  such  circumstances. 
It  was  no  other  than  Snider,  a  medical  student,  noted 
for  his  sarcastic  drollery,  and  prematurely,  by  complais- 
ance, ycleped  doctor.  The  toad-fosterer  prepared  him- 
self for  a  wit-battering  ;  but  he  looked  upon  the  child  of 
his  adoption  and  felt  a  martyr's  courage  nerve  him. 
What  was  his  surprise  to  see  his  friend  assume  an  ex- 
pression of  sadness  as  his  eye  rested  on  the  toad,  and 
then  look  mournfully  in  his  face. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  he  enquired. 

"Vaucluse,"  he  replied  solemnly,  ''I'msorry  foryou  ;" 
and  he  drew  out  his  handkerchief. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  explain  yourself ;  this  suspense  is 
insupportable." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  a  man  of  your  intelligence  has  suf- 
fered himself  to  be  deceived  ?" 

*'  My  dear  doctor,  do,  do,  I  pray  you,  speak." 

"  Know  then,  Vaucluse,  that  your  unwise  pampering 
has  induced  the  incipient  symptoms  of  apoplexy  in  yoQ 
poor  toad." 


PET-NOTIONS.  425 

*'  No  ;  you  are  not  iu  earnest"  — 

'*  I  am.  Mark  his  distended  sides,  his  gasping  breath, 
his  heavy  eyes. — Vaucluse,  he  cannot  survive  the  night, 
but  through  the  application  of  immediate  medical  aid." 

"Say  not  so.  Can  you,  my  dear  doctor,  can  you  cure 
him?" 

"  If  the  case  is  unconditionally  left  with  me." 

"  Doctor,  I  fear  to  trust  you  ;  but  there's  no  remedy. 
Do  what  thou  wilt,  but  do  it  quickly." 

"  The  eye  of  the  young  Esculapius  brightened  ;  the  toad 
was  his  first  patient.  Softly  upheaving  the  sash,  he  gently 
lifted  the  wheezing  animal  from  his  warm  seat,  and  raising 
hitn  as  if  more  nearly  to  inspect  the  gustatory  organs,  he 
suddenly  ejected  from  his  mouth  into  the  open  maw  of  the 
unfortunate  toad,  an  immense  quid  of  half-consumed 
cavendish  ;  then  replacing  him,  he  awaited  only  to  see 
him  sneeze  thrice,  with  a  shudder  swallow  the  pill,  and 
retire  to  his  dark  abode  ;  then  glancing  at  the  confounded 
and  indignant  Vaucluse,  he  made  his  exit,  murmuring 
the  while — "  emetic  and  cathartic — large  dose — operation 
protracted  result — general  reduction  of  the  system." 

Why  need  I  relate  the  vigils  of  a  lomantic  student  who 
vainly  watches  for  the  coming  of  his  pet-notion  ?  Suffice 
it  to  say  that  days,  weeks,  nay  a  whole  month  flew  by,  and 
the  toad  greeted  not  the  eyes  of  Vaucluse.  "  Hope  dark- 
ened  into  anxiety,  anxiety  into  dread,  and  dread  into  de- 
spair." The  solitary  student  observed  the  first  monthly 
anniversary  of  his  pet's  departure  by  unusual  moodiness 
and  abstinence.  When  the  sun  kissed  the  white  surface 
of  the  window  sill,  he  stood  with  a  fixed  eye,  folded  arms 
36* 


426  PET-NOTIONS.  "' 

and  a  frowning  brow,  looking  upon  its  solitude.  Did  he 
dream?  Something  like  a  toad's  head  seemed  protruding 
from  the  hole.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  ;  and  with  what  emo- 
tions, I  leave  the  reader  to  imagine,  beheld  something 
very  like  a  toad,  the  outline,  the  shadow  of  his  corpulent 
pet,  slowly  creep  forth  and  drag  himself  to  his  old  position. 
The  speckled  skin  hung  flabbily,  the  legs  were  perfect 
anatomies  ;  the  toad  seemed  in  the  last  stage  of  a  con- 
sumption. In  vain  his  feeble  jaws  essayed  to  seize  their 
prey.  His  eye  gleamed  brilliantly.  Vaucluse  tearfully 
opened  the  casement,  placed  the  daintiest  flies  in  the  open 
mouth  of  the  convalescent,  and  ere  many  days  beheld  the 
bright  colours  revive  upon  the  epidermis,  the  sides  and 
back  plump  heartily  out,  and  the  fly-hunt  proceed  more 
briskly  than  ever.  He  once  more  rejoiced  in  his  pet- 
notion. 


LOITERING 


Philosophers  seldom  deem  the  minor  characteristics 
of  their  kind  worthy  of  discussion.  Otherwise,  methinks 
they  would  have  analysed  a  feeling  of  which  not  a  few  are 
conscious;  I  mean  the  loitering  piopensity.  Even  the 
poets,  who  are  vastly  more  circumspect  in  noting  the 
quaint  things  of  life,  have  scarcely  alluded  to  this.  Nei- 
ther Crabbe,  indefatigable  as  he  was  in  taking  cognizance 
of  the  veriest  humors  of  our  nature,  nor  Wordsworth, 
bravely  as  he  has  persevered  in  showing  up  the  more  sim- 
ple and  native  workings  of  the  heart,  have  done  justice 
to  the  inherent  disposition  to  loiter  which  belongs  to  some 
men,  as  truly  as  their  gait  or  their  noses.  Let  no  one 
suggest  that  the  topic  would  have  been  appropriate  to 
Thomson's  «' Castle  of  Indolence."  Your  legitimate  loi- 
terers are  the  busiest  men  alive.  Depend  upon  it  their  air 
of  leisure,  though  it  may  indicate  the  absence  of  certain  do- 
mestic inspirers  of  activity — proves  any  thing  rather  than 
the  absence  of  thought.  Why,  Addison  was  wont  to  loiter 
in  club-rooms,  Irving  in  old  English  castles,  and  Charles 


428  LOlTERI^G. 

Lamb  at  book-stalls.  The  Spectator,  Sketch-Book,  and 
Elia,  prove  that  they  did  not  loiter  in  vain.  Taste  and 
circumstances  combine  to  influence  our  habits  of  loitering. 
The  young  physician  loiters  in  the  druggist's  shop,  the 
coxcomb  in  the  street,  and  the  poet  by  the  river's  side. 
Loiterers  of  some  kind  and  in  some  degree  are  we  all, 
superlatively  busy  and  time-saving  as  we  may  complacent- 
ly think  ourselves. 

There  is  no  little  philosophy  in  loitering.  The  driving 
creatures  who  are  ceaselessly  on  the  move,  brushing  by 
you  with  a  smile  of  recognition  which  habit  has  stereo- 
typed on  their  countenances,  and  a  nod  which  says,  "  How 
d'  ye  do,"  and  "  good  b'  ye"  at  the  same  time,  know  none 
of  the  true  zest  of  life,  save  the  little  modicum  which  is  in- 
volved in  mere  locomotion.  They  are  like  certain  poet- 
asters who  in  the  race  of  rhyme,  linger  not  for  ideas. 
What  to  them  are  the  border  roses  and  beautiful  vistas  of 
rural  pathways,  or  the  heart-stirring  faces  and  rich  print- 
shop  windows  of  the  metropolis  1  Like  Youug  Rapid,  their 
watch-word  is  "  keep  moving  ;"  and  as  to  by-way  thoughts 
or  observations,  they'll  none  of  them.  Now,  consider 
how  much  of  the  pleasure  of  life  is  contingent,  and  how 
little  direct.  In  pressing  ardently  onward  to  a  much  de- 
sired goal,  we,  in  a  manner,  prepare  ourselves  for  disap- 
pointment. But  the  flower  that  smiles  up  to  us  unbidden 
from  the  hedge,  the  splendid  prospect  suddenly  encounter- 
ed, the  en  passant  greeting — these  are  thrice  enlivening 
because  expected. 

Fertilizing  and  auspicious   as  is  the  energetic  play  of 
all  the  faculties,  there  is  a  deep  wisdom  in  allowing  the 


LOITERING.  4*29 

mind  to  lie  fallow.  Like  the  soil  thus  exposed  to  the 
grateful  agencies  of  nature  and  its  own  self-evolved  ener- 
gy, its  productiveness  is  eventually  enhanced.  Amid  the 
exciiiug  elements  in  which  we  live,  there  is  a  little  danger 
of  a  dearth  of  action.  And  if  one  would  press  on  with 
secure  intelligence,  let  him  sometimes  loiter  to  scrutinize 
and  meditate,  let  him  betiold  what  is  around  as  well  as  6c- 
fore  him.  Oh,  it  is  true  philosophy,  in  such  a  shadowy 
world  as  ours,  to  linger  momentarily  over  every  joy-beam, 
were  it  only  to  garner  up  its  blessedness  in  our  memories  ! 
It  is,  after  all,  by  dribblets  that  good  comes  to  us  ;  and 
thus  only  can  we  happily  imbibe  it  to  any  great  degree. 
A  lover  of  books  unless  thoroughly  imbued  with  the 
spirit  of  Dominie  Sampson,  feels  rather  oppressed  than 
inspired  on  first  entering  an  immense  library.  Yet  such 
a  one  may  lounge  an  hour  over  a  bookseller's  counter,  or 
scan  the  pages  of  a  racy  magazine,  enjoying  the  while  a 
mood  the  most  calmly  pleasurable.  In  this,  as  in  many 
other  respects,  there  is  a  coincidence  between  the  influ- 
ences of  art  and  literature.  To  one  whose  love  of  the 
beautiful  is  passionate  and  keen,  there  is  something  op- 
pressive in  the  aspect  of  a  well-stocked  gallery,  while  au 
artist's  sanctum  proves  a  delightful  resort ;  and  a  fine  par- 
lour picture,  accidentally  fallen  in  with,  is  productive  of 
unalloyed  delight.  A  single  congenial  volume  represents 
to  the  imaginative  mind  the  idea  of  literature  ;  and  a  sketch 
or  statue  is  an  eloquent  symbol  of  art.  There  is  a  philoso- 
phical principle  involved  in  these  facts.  The  truth  is,  the 
feelings  of  a  man  of  ideal  and  susceptible  temperament — 
and  these  characteristics   are   rarely    disunited — are   as 


430  LOITERING. 

delicate  as  they  are  vivid.  An  imposing  array  of  objects, 
until  singly  and  methodically  scanned,  by  the  variety  and 
richness  of  their  suggestions,  confuse  and  satiate  his  sen- 
sitive taste.  Individually,  unobtrusively,  unexpectedly  ad- 
dressed, his  mind  freely  responds.  The  current  of  feel- 
ing thus  receives  an  impetus,  neither  rude  nor  onerous, 
but  precisely  strong  enough  to  urge  it  into  a  thoughtful 
and  happy  flow.  Painters  speak  of  a  feeling  for  color; 
so  is  there  a  feeling  for  the  beautiful  and  the  true  in  man, 
which  will  not  bear  forcing  nor  feasting,  but  finds  its  own 
gratification  in  self-possessed  and  spontaneous  observa- 
tion. And  thus  the  loiterers,  on  the  world's  highway,  in 
true  enjoyment  and  actual  good,  not  unfrequently  outstrip 
the  most  bustling  and  speedy  of  the  careering  multitude : 

—~—~ "  as  the  fowl  can  keep 


Absolute  stillness,  poised  aloft  in  air, 
And  fishes  front,  unmoved,  the  torrent's  sweep — 
So  may  the  soul,  through  powers  that  faith  bestows, 
Win  rest,  and  peace,  with  bliss  that  angels  share." 


BROAD    VIEWS. 


I  LOVE  to  steal  away  from  a  group  of  system-worship- 
pers, and  commune  awhile  with  some  solitary,  uncourted 
being,  whose  scope  of  thought  is  unlimited  by  any  artifi- 
cial bounds,  and  the  play  of  whose  feelings  is  as  free  as 
the  mountain  wind.  It  is  like  leaving  the  smoky  pre- 
cincts of  a  highland  hut,  on  a  summer  morning,  to  stand 
beneath  the  open  sky  and  look  forth  upon  the  hills. 
There  is  something  as  refreshing  to  the  mind's  eye  in 
broad  views  of  life  and  man,  of  art  and  literature,  of  facts 
and  individuals,  of  nature  and  society,  as  there  is  to  the 
bodily  sense  in  majestic  and  boundless  scenery.  Broad 
views  are  characteristic  of  mental  elevation.  To  the 
eagle's  eye,  when  he  hangs  poised  among  the  clouds,  a 
common  arena  and  universal  atmosphere  blend  the  aspect 
of  earth  and  her  myriads.  By  as  certain  a  law,  does  the 
human  universe  present  a  general  and  softened  picture 
to  the  intellect,  sublimated  by  love  and  enlarged  by  cul- 
ture. 

It  was  once  my  privilege  to  walk  through  a  renowned 


432  BROAD    VIEWS. 

repository  of  art,  with  a  man  of  genius.  I  had  scruti- 
nized the  various  objects  there  preserved  with  compa- 
nions of  less  calibre,  who  evidently  prided  themselves 
upon  detecting  discrepancies  of  style  and  errors  of  execu- 
tion. My  new  cicerone^  on  the  contrary,  designated 
beauties  in  works,  which,  as  wholes,  are  held  in  light  es- 
timation, and  was  continually  directing  my  attention  to 
the  lesser  excellencies  of  the  more  celebrated  productions. 
This  was  the  genuine  spirit  of  noble  criticism.  Broad 
views  are  as  naturally  taken  by  gifted  men,  as  limited 
ones  by  those  of  subordinate  intelligence.  You  never 
hear  an  ardent  lover  of  art  or  literature  commenting  con 
amove,  upon  the  minor  blemishes  of  a  production  in  which 
genius  is  dominant.  How  do  the  aspirants  for  a  reputa- 
tion for  gentility  err  by  continually  mooting  the  narrow 
topic  of  rank  ;  and  how  do  the  would-be  critics  mistake 
their  vocation  by  anxiously  discussing  etymologies ! 
Broad  views  are  the  legitimate  result  of  experience  and 
general  knowledge. 

The  author  of  some  modern  farce  makes  one  of  his 
heroes,  an  accomplished  Parisian  duellist,  console  a  for- 
eign coxcomb  whom  he  has  challenged,  by  promising  to 
have  him  '  neatly  packed  up  and  directed.'  Somewhat 
after  this  fashion,  men  appear  to  be  dealt  with  in  society. 
Because  an  individual  sees  fit  to  connect  himself  with  a 
certain  association,  manifest  an  interest  in  a  specific  ob- 
ject, or  temporarily  display,  with  more  than  ordinary 
force,  a  particular  principle  of  his  nature,  he  is  at  once 
classed,  newly  baptized  with  a  party  name,  enrolled, 
severed  by  an  artificial  distinction — in  a  word,  ^  packed 


BROAD    VIEWS.  433 

up  and  directed.'  An  imaginary  badge  is  affixed  to  him 
as  significant  as  the  philaetery  ol  the  pharisee,  the  star  of 
courtly  honourj  or  the  colored  ribbon  denoting  academic 
or  knightly  preferment.  To  all  the  general  interests  and 
purposes  of  social  life,  he  is  proscribed.  The  usual  me- 
thod of  answering  the  question,  'What  sort  of  a  person  is 
—  V  is  to  designate  the  body  political,  scientific  or  other- 
wise, to  which  the  individual  is  attached.  A  fashionable 
votary  refers  you  to  the  '  circle,'  a  religionist  to  the 
<  sect,'  and  an  intellectualist,  to  the  '  school  ;'  each 
'  packs  up  and  directs  '  that  most  diverse,  spontaneous, 
and  free  of  human  results — character,  according  to  his 
whim. 

Classification  is  doubtless  very  applicable  to  minerals 
and  plants,  and  labels  have  been  found  very  useful  in 
pharmacy.  The  inert,  unalterable,  fixed  qualities  of 
matter  may  be  designated  by  a  specific  or  generic  name, 
may  be  '  packed  up  and  directed  :'  but  the  idea  of  so 
disposing  of  human  beings — of  indicating  the  endless 
modifications  of  feeling,  imagination  and  thought,  by  any 
epithet  referring  only  to  opinions,  is  preposterous  in  the 
extreme.  We  have  two  brief,  but  most  expressive  terms 
for  the  two  most  sublime  objects  in  the  universe;  we 
speak  of  sea  and  sky ;  but  whoever  thinks  of  taking  pro- 
found cognizance  of  a  particular  wave,  or  devoutly  fol- 
lowing through  the  horizon  a  single,  shifting  cloud  ? 
We  regard  the  various  movements  of  the  deep  and  the 
ever  changing  aspect  of  the  heavens,  with  perfect  con- 
fidence that  the  calm  etherial  canopy  of  the  one  still 
stretches  in  beauty  above,  and  the  fathomless  depths  of 
37 


434  BROAD    VIEWS. 

the  other  still  sound  on  their  way  below.  Why  should 
we  be  less  just  to  man  ?  Why  believe  that  the  deep  at- 
tributes,  the  great  elements  of  his  nature,  are  invaded  by 
the  aspects  his  versatile  being  presents  in  a  world  of 
circumstances  ?  Why  fix  our  eye  upon  the  temporary 
wave  or  the  passing  cloud,  when  there  is  an  infinite 
depth  below  and  a  glorious  expanse  above,  which 
shall  endure  when  the  currents  of  opinion  and  the 
breezes  of  circumstance  have  died  away  on  an  illimhable 
shore  ? 

If  Madame  de  Stael  did  not  grievously  err  in  her  idea 
that  mankind  are  never  alike  but  '  through  affectation 
or  design,'  then  this  system  of  classifying  is  especially 
unjust,  and  to  form  any  definite  notion  of  an  individual 
from  the  party-title  affixed  to  him,  is  altogether  unphi- 
losophical.  Yet  how  perversely  we  cut  ourselves  off 
from  society  calculated  to  inspire  the  deepest  interest  or 
to  exert  a  most  auspicious  influence,  by  the  dominion  of. 
some  foolish  antipathy !  Hundreds  are  avoided  or  but 
casually  known  because  they  labor  under  the  impu- 
tation of  being  antiquarians,  phrenologists,  or  litterateurs, 
as  if  each  and  all  of  these  characters  might  not  be  cul- 
tivated without  absording  humanity  !  Yet  being  <  packed 
up  and  directed  *  under  these  or  equally  effective  terms, 
men,  ay,  and  women  too,  are  rendered  obnoxious  to 
no  small  portion  of  their  fellow  creatures.  '  Why  do  you 
not  converse  with  Miss  A — V  I  enquired  of  a  very 
sensible  lady  at  a  party  the  other  evening.  <  Oh,  Pro 
terribly  afraid  of  literary  ladies,'  she  replied,  with  an  ill- 
suppressed  shudder  at  my  suggestion.     Now  the  lady  in 


BROAD    VIEWS. 


435 


question  had  merely  given  to  the  public  some  lively 
sketches  of  common  life,  such  as  would  have  been  very 
appropriate  epistolary  matter  wherewith  to  entertain  an 
absent  friend ;  and  she  was  in  the  habit  of  talking 
well  of  every  thing  in  the  whole  range  of  topics,  except 
literature,  about  which  she  knew  and  cared  no  more 
than  was  absolutely  necessary  to  vindicate  her  claims 
to  ordinary  cultivation.  Yet  was  she  thus  unceremon- 
iously '  packed  up  '  in  that  peculiarly  odious  box  marked 

'  BLUES.' 

This  miserable  habit  of  our  times  is  vividly  illustrated 
by  the  manner  in  which  those  next  most  sacred  things 
to  mortals,  books  are  treated.  Celsus  reprobates  the 
idea  of  a  fixed  system  of  diet,  on  the  ground  that  men 
are  exposed  to  every  variety  of  influence  and  condi. 
tion  of  body  ;  and  if  books  have  been  justly  considered 
as  mental  food,  then  may  we,  on  the  same  ground,  ad- 
vantageously vary  our  reading.  Yet  there  is  scarcely 
an  individual  who  has  not  *  packed  up  and  directed  * 
numberless  works,  of  the  true  value  of  which  he  is  al- 
together unaware  ;  packed  them  up  in  the  iron  casket  of 
prejudice,  and  directed  them  to  the  far  distant  region  of 
neglect. 

*It  is  the  spirit  of  the  soul's  natural  piety,'  says 
a  British  divine,  <  to  alight  on  whatever  is  touching 
or  beautiful  in  every  faith,  and  take  thence  its  secret 
draught  of  pure  and  fresh  emotion.'  And  so  is  it 
the  spirit  of  him  accustomed  to  broad  views,  to  re- 
cognize man,  as  such,  however  artificially  displayed, 
to  blot  out,  at  a  glance,  the  label  society  has  attached  to 


436  BROAD    VIEWS. 

him,  and  behold  the  earlier  and  indelible  signature  of 
nature  ; — 


that  secret  spirit  of  humanity, 


Which,  'mid  her  weeds  and  flowers,  and  silent 
Overgrowings,' still  survives." 


THE    END. 


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